The Hunted
by Sasha L'Orange
Summary: With murderous Kirkwallers on their heels, Hawke and her companions flee the City of Chains. They look to make new lives beyond the Free Marches, but with Templars, Seekers, and a vengeful Magister out for their blood, they cannot hide forever. Fen/Hawke. Rated for sexual content.
1. Chapter 1: Sail across the Sound

**The Hunted **

**Chapter One: Sail across the Sound**

Hawke's eyes were targeted on the burning cityscape like Bianca on a hurlock; she couldn't have looked away even if she had wanted to. The tongues of fire snaking across Hightown choked the stars from view with smoke. When she blinked, the image of Kirkwall aflame flashed before her still, as if it were branded into the very backs of her eye lids. The heaviest silence Hawke had ever suffered hung over her and those who remained of her rag-tag group of companions. If not for the rhythmic slapping of water on the oars as she, Fenris, Varric, and Aveline rowed the skiff they'd commandeered to escape the Gallows, the quietness of her fellows might have crushed them all. What could any of them have said? One of their number – one whom they had trusted with their lives (excepting, perhaps, Fenris) – had just blown up the Chantry and half of Hightown. They'd just slain First Enchanter Orsino and Knight-Commander Meredith. By choosing to protect the mages, Hawke had been forced into starting a revolution.

Revolution meant war.

Even from so far out in the sound, they could smell burning flesh mingling with the wood smoke. Even though Meredith had left Hawke with no choice, she still felt sick with guilt. The Templars she had killed today were not evil men and women; they'd been following orders. And now she'd done it again and dragged her friends into a fight she couldn't even imagine the end of. The flames scorching Kirkwall might have been raging in her own stomach. Hawke's lips pulled into a thin line. Fenris stole a glance at her for a moment and saw that her breathing was shallow and irregular beneath her armor, as if she sporadically forgot to breathe. If his hands hadn't been occupied with rowing, he might have been tempted to reach out and touch one of hers. As it was, the tension among the lot of them was wound so tightly that the faintest pluck would snap it. Or, alternatively, the lightest tap from a booted foot.

Shifting her leg, Hawke accidentally nudged Merrill, who screamed in alarm and fell from her perch on the prow. She toppled into the water with a tremendous splash for so small an elf and flailed about in the waves like a panicked child, coughing and spitting.

"Oh, _shit_, I'm sorry, Merrill! My foot was asleep," apologized Hawke. Isabela – ever quick on her feet – was already pulling the elf back on board, so Hawke leaned over the side to fish the mage's staff out of the water before it floated too far out of reach.

"Maker, Merrill," chided the pirate, "you're shakier than a dog shitting peach seeds. Calm down before your heart explodes." She hauled her onto the last bench on the skiff and gave the elf a reassuring pat on the shoulder as she pulled Merrill down onto the seat. Loki – already cramped in the tight space, curled into an even tighter ball on the floor of the skiff to make room for the elf's legs. He whined for a moment until Bethany reached out and scratched behind his ears.

Meanwhile, Hawke plucked the staff out of the waves. The wood felt strangely warm in her chilled hands. "Here you go, Merrill. I imagine you'll be wanting this back." Lifting the corners of her mouth in a soft smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, she laid it at the mage's feet before returning to her oar.

"You all right there, Daisy? You nearly scared the pants off of elf-boy here," said Varric.

Fenris grunted and sat up straighter. "She did no such thing."

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, Varric, thank you, and I'm glad you kept your pants, Fenris; it's quite cool tonight," said Merrill with a shiver. "Oh, that wasn't very pleasant. You notice how the water stinks like grease and rotten cabbages? Well, it doesn't taste any better than it smells. Anyway, I'm sorry, everyone. I know we're trying to be quiet. I guess I'm just so nervous, what with all the fighting and that fire we're rowing into and everything that Anders-" she cut herself off mid-thought, "Oh, never mind. I'll shut up now." She cast her huge, glistening eyes to the toes of her leather boots. Seated next to Isabela's generous bosom and with her dripping hair plastered against her face, the elf had never looked quite so tiny.

"For once, I think we all know exactly what you mean, Merrill," said Aveline as the rowing continued. Kirkwall's docks drew closer with every passing moment. "We're enemies of the state. What in Thedas do we do now?"

"We only have two choices. Stay and wait for the Templars have us all arrested and executed for acts of sedition, war, and terrorism, or leave and go into hiding. Which option appeals to you more?" said Fenris dryly.

"I'd like to avoid getting hanged in the Gallows, if at all possible," said the dwarf. "I doubt death would do much to enhance my striking good looks. Might not hurt yours, though, Broody."

"Mm, nope, life suits him better," said Hawke. She smiled briefly at Fenris, which he returned with half a smirk.

Bethany, who hadn't uttered a word since they fled the Gallows courtyard, finally spoke up. "They wouldn't come after all of us, would they? I mean, Aveline's the Captain of the Guard. You're the Champion of Kirkwall, Vivian. Surely that must mean something."

"I don't think so, Bethany," began Aveline. "Too many people saw us killing Templars in the streets. And anyway, too many people know that we've been running with An-" her eyes flickered to the back of Hawke's head, "with apostates. Once word gets out about who was behind the explosion, we'll be implicated in everyone's minds."

The rogue's shoulders sagged for a moment in a gesture that almost resembled defeat. "Aveline's right. It's going to get even uglier here. People are going to want retribution. Once it gets out that I couldn't kill Anders, once Kirkwall and the Chantry learn what we have done, they will hunt for us. Any Templars still in the streets will already be looking for us. I know Knight-Captain Cullen has ordered only our arrest, but they won't all have gotten the message. Most Templars will still be operating under Meredith's standing orders, which are clearly to kill us on sight. Right now, we've got to focus on keeping each other alive, which means getting out of here, and fast."

"Oh, dear. I suppose that means we'll be needing to escape the city, then. Just how do we manage that, do you think?" asked Merrill.

"I working on… Hang on! Isabela, how long would it take to make ready to sail that ship you swindled out of Castillion?"

"Hawke, I like the way your mind works, you slippery little minx. With a small crew, she can be ready in under an hour." Isabela's golden eyes suddenly blazed with a flame separate from the one reflected on her irises from the glowing cityscape.

"It looks like we have our exit, then," said Varric.

"Brilliant. I was bored of this dingy little city, anyway. All those buildings, and there's only one pub in the whole bloody place that's seedy enough to be fun without stinking so powerfully of piss that it bleaches your eyebrows when you walk in the door. Although you might find that service useful, Fenris," jibbed Isabela.

"Yes, I suppose bleaching my eyebrows with urine would do me good."

Hawke shook her head as they finally coasted in next to a wooden dock close to Isabela's ship. A few years ago, it might have been a wonder to her that she and her friends were high enough in spirits to make jokes at a time like this, what with the world collapsing all around them. But after ages of getting to know even the grittiest details of her companions – after years of laughing, drinking, mourning, loving, and fighting with them – she recognized the strain underlying all their voices. The sarcasm and sniping were just ways to maintain some semblance of normalcy in amongst all the chaos.

Agile as a cat, Hawke leapt onto the dock, which was so rickety and riddled with holes that it shuddered under her light weight. Aveline handed her a rope from the skiff, which she tied deftly around a pole. "All right, kiddies, everybody out of the pool." She held out a hand to Merrill, whose natural lack of coordination and sopping wet clothes made climbing out of the boat a particular challenge. During her scramble to get onto the dock, her staff smacked Fenris in the back of the head, causing his lyrium markings to flash with his surprise.

"Watch it, mage!" he growled and climbed up between her and Hawke, as if compelled to use himself as a barrier between Hawke and Merrill's terminal clumsiness. His brands quickly dimmed.

"I could tell _you_ to watch it, Fenris. Your head might have knocked my staff back into that smelly water again."

"And you cool the lightshow, Fenris! Do you want us to be seen? All we need is for some archer to start sniping at us from the walls," said Varric.

"That's why we need to get a move on here, people," said Hawke.

"Exactly. So, let's saunter on over to my ship and get our pretty asses the hell out of dodge," supplied Isabela. She hurried by them – hips still swaying – toward a smaller ship on one of the outermost docks.

"Wait," said Hawke suddenly, "There's something I have to do. Bodahn and Sandal managed to get away, but I'm sure Orana's still at my estate. I've got to go to her."

"Andraste's flaming sword! There isn't any time now for that bleeding heart of yours, Hawke! Orana's not an infant. She'll be fine," hissed Isabela, stopping in her tracks.

"I can't just _leave_ her. The Templars will think she has information on our whereabouts. Think of what they might do to her if they find her."

"And I can't just abandon Donnic," said Aveline. "Please, Isabela, he said he'd be defending the Alienage. That's not far from here. I'll find him and bring him back to the docks; I can't lose another husband."

The Rivaini heaved a disgusted sigh and rolled her eyes. "Oh, bullocks. That's why I swore I'd never get married again. Husbands make more mess than a mabari in a china closet." She ground the heel of her palm into her right eye, grimacing. "Curse you and that infectious conscience of yours, Hawke. We pull out in one hour. If you aren't back here by then, you can _swim_ back to Ferelden, or wherever the hell you want to go."

Hawke and Aveline nodded. "That's all I'll need. Thank you, Isabela," said Hawke as she clapped the pirate on the shoulder and gave it an appreciative squeeze. The two women exchanged brief grins before Hawke knelt down next to her mabari. "Loki, go with Aveline, will you? Tear the kneecaps off anything that tries to hurt her."

Loki whined and refused to budge from her side.

"Don't worry, boy. Fenris will make sure no one so gets near me." Her eyes lifted to meet the elf's, who had already strapped the Blade of Mercy onto his back, ready to run.

Satisfied, Loki barked his assent and bounded next to the warrior, who rubbed his neck gratefully. When the war hound turned his head to look at his master, Hawke had already set off at a run, Fenris rushing alongside her. A moment later, they turned a corner around the empty gatehouse and disappeared into the burning city.


	2. Chapter 2: The Flight from Kirkwall

**The Hunted**

**Chapter Two: The Flight from Kirkwall**

Lowtown was in chaos. Thieves ducked in and out of houses, filching what few silvers they could find. Men and women ran shouting through the dark streets, fighting off the looters who preyed on the fear and bedlam that had broken out when Anders detonated the Chantry. Horses screamed and galloped down the streets, half wild without their masters. Bawling children clung to their mothers' skirts, desperate not to be lost in the twilight shuffle. Other Kirkwallers simply stared, aghast, at the flames eating their way across the skyline of Hightown overhead. The blazes weren't limited to the wealthy parts of the city, either. Fires – probably caused by wayward spells cast by fleeing mages – had broken out in several stalls and homes, sending even more panicked families streaming into the alleyways. Many shops and dwellings, including the Trinkets Emporium, had already been reduced to cinders. The city guardsmen who struggled to gain back some semblance of order by bellowing commands for water carriers to douse the flames and directing the civilians to safe locations went completely ignored.

The madness, which reminded Hawke of a giant ant hill that had just been torn open by a mabari, provided her and Fenris with the perfect means to slip through the streets unnoticed. Anyone who might have been looking for the Champion of Kirkwall and her accomplices would be hard pressed to spot them in all the pandemonium. Still, Hawke clung stealthily to the shadows, keeping her face down and out of the firelight. The last thing they needed was to get caught up in a battle that would waste precious minutes. Fenris followed her lead, padding barefoot behind her as they flitted swiftly and silently through the remnants of the Lowtown Bazaar.

The rhythmic grinding crunch of silverite boots about to turn the corner in the alleyway to their left alerted them to the presence of danger hurtling toward them. "Templars," hissed Fenris. His hand automatically flew to the hilt of his sword.

"We don't have time to fight them. Quick, we've got to hide." She caught his hand before it could unsheathe his blade and pulled him behind an overturned cart in front of Lady Elegant's potion stand. They dropped to the ground, bellies and chest plates pressing into the hard packed earth. The sweet smell of straw wafted up to their noses and temporarily softened even the acrid tang of burning tar. Through a gap in the cart planks, the two fugitives watched a small batallion's worth of Templar's boots storm past their hiding place only seconds later. The soldiers tore off in the direction of the Hanged Man, completely ignorant of the fact that they'd just run within hand's breadth of their quarry.

The danger past, Hawke closed her eyes and heaved a shallow sigh to help ebb the latest blast of adrenaline away from her nerves. Fenris had already risen to his feet and cast a vigilant eye around the market. Satisfied that the way was clear, he lowered his hand to the woman beside him. "Come, Hawke. It won't do to make Isabela wait. I doubt either of us would enjoy swimming out of the harbour." He offered her a faint smirk.

"I admit that drowning was not on my to-do list for tonight. But then again, plenty of other things I've just done weren't, either," answered Hawke after she leapt out from behind the cart. The couple dashed over to the stairs leading to Hightown and cast their gazes skyward. Hawke sobered for a moment. Fenris could see the blazing towers mirrored on her eyes as she spoke: "This is going to be awful, isn't it?"

"I imagine so. Keep your guard up."

They took the stairs two at a time, climbing hundreds of steps in a matter of minutes. When they finally reached the top and passed under the archway to the Hightown market square, the first thing they noticed was the smell.

"Oh, Maker," uttered Hawke under her breath and clapped a hand over her nose. Everything stank of death and smoke. The very air was saturated with the choking odor. Despite her years of hardening experience as a fighter, the rogue barely suppressed urge to wretch. Heaps of gore and debris littered the devastated ruin that was once the wealthiest district of Kirkwall. Tangled masses of wood and stone burned where houses and stores once stood, obliterated along with the Chantry. Smoking craters scarred the ground, soaked with blood. Countless people had died in the blast, crushed by the hail of stone and burned by fire. The flames still roared around them, howling with a rage that threatened to drown out all other sound. As she and Fenris entered what was left of Hightown, Hawke felt as though she had just passed over the threshold of Hell.

They hadn't taken five steps before they came across the first body. Having fallen so close to the stairs to Lowtown, the older man had probably died trying to escape the explosion. His back had been crushed beneath a tree. Judging from his charred, delicately smoldering skin, his corpse had only just stopped burning.

Hawke tore her gaze away from the body and hurried nimbly through the rubble, making her way down the crumbling streets. The once gleaming district had transformed overnight into a veritable labyrinth of debris and flaming wreckage. She and Fenris were careful not to tread on the bodies of Templars, mages, and civilians scattered across the quarter. They made their way past the blood-painted the walls and mountains of rubble littered with guts and limbs, searching for a way to the Hawke Estate that wasn't blocked by twenty-foot tall chunks of Chantry. Fenris had to step gingerly across the wreckage and bloody puddles to avoid miring his exposed toes in the filth.

Hawke turned another corner, gracefully vaulted over a hunk of Andraste's stone face, and slipped in a pile of wound slurry. Heart pounding wildly in her chest and eyes as wide as saucers, she starred at the small corpse she'd collapsed on. It was the body of a young mage apprentice; the girl couldn't have been older than twelve. Her head had been smashed by a well-aimed blow from the hilt of a longsword, and Hawke was lying in her brains. The woman nearly lost the battle with her gag reflex. She would have if Fenris hadn't immediately yanked her to her feet and pulled her tightly to his chest. Hawke could feel his hands roughly brushing up and down her back, and she didn't want to imagine what sort of material he was batting off her mantle. The wet, squelching sound it made when it hit the stones at their feet was telling enough. "Vivian, are you all right?" he asked, placing his gauntleted hands on the sides of her face.

Hawke took a second to even out her breathing. She nodded and put the steel back behind her eyes. "Yes, I'm fine. We're nearly there. It's just beyond that archway," she said, nodding to the East.

"Right. Let's move." Fenris released her, and the pair shimmed though a tight squeeze between two chucks of the estate that used to neighbour Hawke's. It had collapsed when a huge section of flying buttress from the Chantry had crashed into it.

"You're lucky this didn't flatten your home instead," the elf said, nodding to the wreckage.

"I never did care for split levels."

Fenris chucked darkly for a moment. "Let's see what's inside, shall we?" He reached out to pull open the door, but it flew open before his hand even touched it. A man with muddy eyes and a sackful of Hawke's belongings rocketed out of the estate like a cat with a hellhound on its tail. He ran straight into the outstretched foot the woman had placed to trip him, sending the man careening to the ground in a heap of limbs and stolen baubles. He lay there for a moment, dazed.

Fenris had his sword drawn in an instant, and Hawke's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Don't I know you?" she said. "Wait, this is the _second_ time I've caught you burglarizing my home, isn't it? What do you think you're – _Is that my_ _chamber pot?_"

"Well, there wasn't much stuff left by the time I got there, you see, Champion, and a man's got to make his living somehow." He barely managed to make the words stumble from his mouth, and his eyes jumped from between Fenris's glowering eyes and the tip of his blade.

"What ever happened to that honest work my mabari supposedly converted you to?" demanded Hawke. She might have been scandalized if she'd had the energy to spare.

"I tried. Really, I did! Got a job working the docks. Oh, please don't kill me, Champion! I swear I'll never touch nothing of no one's ever again!" He threw himself prostrate at her feet, groveling.

"Oh, Maker, please don't beg. It's too pathetic. Just go already."

The man needed no further encouragement and tore off into the ruins of Hightown, sack of stolen goods crashing wildly against his backside as he ran.

Fenris arched a brow at Hawke and replaced his sword in its sheath. "You realize that he still made off with your chamber pot, don't you?"

She scowled at the elf, who was clearly enjoying himself. "Not a word of this to Varric, understand? The _last_ thing I need haunting me at every tavern I ever visit is the story of the man who filched my thunder mug."

"Oh? But he would have so much fun telling of how your beauty and prowess swayed grown men to worship even your humblest –"

"_Fenris!_"

"My lips are sealed," he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace, but Hawke still saw mischief glinting in their depths.

"C'mon, then. Let's find Orana and get the hell out of here." She passed inside the estate, which she found was shockingly devoid of decoration. The vultures certainly had been thorough. "Orana? Orana, can you hear me? Are you in here?"

She walked through the antechamber and into the main hall. Fenris, whose elf ears outstripped Hawke's, held up a fist to signal a halt. "Do you hear that?" he asked. "It's coming from in there." He led Hawke into one of the side chambers and up the stairs to the library. Hawke noticed that while all her other valuables had been nicked, her books remained untouched on the shelves. She wasn't sure if she felt pleased or disappointed. And that's when she heard the soft sobbing, which sounded more like a dove with a case of the hiccups than an elven maiden in tears.

"Orana? Is that you?" she said and hurried over to the wine casks across the room. She crouched down onto her hands and knees, peered under one of the giant barrels, and spotted her tiny, blonde housekeeper curled up into a ball, as if she were trying to make herself disappear. "Come on out, Orana. It's all right."

The elf ceased her crying and looked up. "Serah Hawke, is that you?"

"Yes, it's me. Now, come out from under there, will you? We've got to go now."

Orana quickly slipped out from underneath the wine cask and rose to her feet. Her lamp-like green eyes glittered with unshed tears. "You… you came for me, Serah. Thank you."

"Of course I did," said Hawke gently and clasped one of the elf's hands. It wasn't much smaller than her own.

"I'm so sorry. All these burglars… They came in, and I told them to leave, but they wouldn't listen. They told me they'd throw me in the fires outside if I didn't get out of their way. Please don't be angry with me. I was afraid."

The trepidation in Orana's voice almost made Hawke wince. She noticed Fenris's fist clench beside her. Even after years of being treated with kindness, dignity, and generous wages, the elf still struggled to shed the mentality of a fearful slave. " You've done nothing wrong, Orana. I'm just glad you're safe. Now, come on. We've got to run, okay? We've got to get out of Kirkwall." Once the elf nodded, Hawke took her hand once more and rushed back down the flight of stairs and into the main hall. She paused for a moment by the fireplace and hunkered down onto her knees.

"Hawke, what are you doing? We don't have time for sentimental goodbyes," said Fenris sharply.

"Trust me, we've got time for this," said Hawke as she pulled up one of the stones on the floor and lifted out a decent sized bag of coins. She stuffed it down her tunic and pushed herself back onto her feet. "Let's go!"

The race back to the docks seemed agonizingly slow to Fenris. Having lived a life of cooking, cleaning, and lute playing, Orana was no warrior and lacked the skill and endurance required to climb her way over the rubble strewn across Hightown. More than once, Fenris had needed to lift and hoist her over obstacles and pull her along as they ran. It had taken them too long to make their way back to Lowtown. He'd been counting down the minutes in his head since they left, and they were running out of time. He knew Isabela wouldn't wait beyond the hour she promised. She couldn't. Every moment they stayed docked in the harbour brought them all closer to discovery and capture. Or worse.

Mercifully, the streets of Lowtown were just as panicked and disorderly as they were when they'd rushed though before, and once again they managed to give any passing Templars the slip. Twice they had had to duck into darkened doorsteps or behind horse carts, but they were fortunate enough to avoid detection.

"We're nearly there, Orana. Just a bit farther," said Hawke.

The elf only nodded in response and brushed the sweat from her eyes. She was too out of breath to speak. She followed Hawke down a crooked, worn flight of stairs, and the sound of waves breaking finally met her ears. She made her way quickly down, careful to step over the occasional refuse pile that littered the way forward. They soon reached the bottom and continued their run. Orana knew from her infrequent trips to this part of the city that the docks for the seafaring ships were just up ahead. The thought brought renewed lightness to her steps, pushing her to run even faster around the corner –

– And straight into a fully armoured Templar. She crashed into the warrior with great _clang_ and was knocked flat off her feet. The impact barely even caused the man she collided with to stumble, and he drew his sword in a flash. He instantly recognized Hawke and the strangely marked elf she'd been known to run with (rumour had it that they'd been doing a lot more than just _running_ together) and called out, "Men, quick! I've found the traitors!" He was answered by several shouts and the sound of several pairs of silverite boots pounding down the alleyway.

"Oh _shit_," groaned Hawke as she drew her twin blades. She stepped over Orana and made ready to strike, but Fenris had already struck down the Templar and set off down the alley for the four reinforcements who had answered their fellow's call. "Stay low and stay back," she ordered to the frightened elf and tailed closely behind Fenris. He met the others with a bellowing roar and hacked the first two to pieces with a couple ferocious swings.

While they were distracted by the glowing, raging elf before them, Hawke stealthy flitted behind the two remaining Templars. Raising her short blades once more, she reached around the first and guided her dagger under his helmet to slit his throat. He fell sputtering to the ground. The last remaining Templar spun around in alarm and swung his longsword at Hawke's chest. There was barely any room to dodge his attack in the cramped alleyway, so she had to drop and roll out of the way to evade the hit. The soldier raised his blade again, preparing to strike, but the man's head suddenly flew from his shoulders, severed by Fenris's sword. The body collapsed to the ground in a bloody heap, revealing the elf still poised in his death strike.

Standing there with his sword raised, brands glimmering, and eyes blazing, Hawke had never seen anyone look more lethal. "Thanks," she breathed, panting softly.

His eyes softened as they held hers. "Anytime."

She rose to her feet and headed back a few paces to Orana, who was still cowering on the ground. "It's all right. I'm sorry you had to see that, but we've got to keep moving." The elf shakily pulled herself up and ran alongside Hawke, but she shot Fenris a horrified look as she rushed by him, as if she expected him to slice her head off next.

After just another turn down a separate alley, they emerged from the maze of fishing shacks along the docks. "Thank the Maker," uttered Hawke. "There's Isabela's ship."

A woman's moonlit silhouette appeared over the starboard rail. "It's about bloody time, Hawke!" Isabela called and kicked down a rope ladder. "Aveline got back nearly a quarter of an hour ago. You know, I was just about to leave you here, honestly. I had poor Merrill all in shambles."

"It's good to see you too, Isabela," said Hawke with a grin. She directed Orana to the ladder, which seemed to give the elf difficulty.

"Yeah, yeah, you think I'm joking." The smile in her voice betrayed the truth. "Untie those ropes anchoring us to the dock, will you? This'll be a pretty short-lived escape otherwise."

It took Hawke and Fenris only a few minutes to undo the knots, and they swiftly climbed up the ladder and onto the deck. Looking around, they saw Aveline and Donnic rushing about pulling cords. Bethany and Varric were busy pushing the ship away from the dock using long wooden poles. "Welcome aboard the _Vaga de Noche_," said Isabela, grandly sweeping her arm out across the deck.

Free of the ropes, the wind caught in the open sails and pulled the ship away from the dock and into the sound. The winds were high, and soon the ship was far out in the water, too far for any archer's arrow to reach. Hawke granted herself a moment to stand close to Fenris and prop her elbows on the railing. She heaved a sigh of relief into the salty night air. They had escaped.

A/N: Thank you for reading! I'm pleased to say that I've got the plot nicely outlined… Or at least the important chunks of it. For those readers who are lovers of love, we're getting to it, have no fear. I just don't want to sacrifice plot, movement, development, etc. for the sake of cheap thrills, although cheap thrills certainly have their place. Anyway, please review to let me know what you think. Good or bad, I'm anxious to see your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3: Dreams and Dealings

A/N: It just occurred to me that I never posted a disclaimer. So, I hereby state (as is customary in the world of fanfiction) that I have no claim to or ownership over anything related to _Dragon Age_. Unfortunately, I don't own Bioware.

**The Hunted**

**Chapter Three: Dreams and Dealings**

The earth shook and rolled as if it had been torn off its hinges, and the Chantry filled with dazzling, scarlet light. The glowing beams blasted up the spires and punched out from the stained glass windows, consuming the house of the Maker like the flames of Judgment. The pillars of light shot high above the city, disappeared amongst the clouds, and scraped the very heavens. They soaked the sky and the surrounding towers and markets of Kirkwall in a bloodlike luminescence. People walking the streets stopped their chatter and laid aside their wares, their eyes drawn to the otherworldly glow.

Hawke stared in paralyzing terror. It seared her eyes to look at the beams, but she could not look away as the Chantry came apart at the seams, great blocks of it floating impossibly over Hightown. They gyrated in an insane dance overhead before exploding violently outward, raining down on Kirkwall like chunks of mountains and dragon's breath. Or the Maker's wrath. She tried to shout, to warn people to run or take cover, but she had been stricken mute. A great, fiery missile soared toward her in a blazing arc. She tried to turn, to run, to shove into action Fenris, Bethany, and her friends who stood dumbly around her, but a glowing, crackled hand fell on her shoulder and froze her in place. Her body might have been turned to icy stone. "I'm sorry, Vivian, but there is no other way," said Anders. His eyes flashed eerily between warm brown and a burning blue-white. "I've ached for you every moment for the past six years. I only wish I could have made love to you, even just once. Perhaps it's best we die here, n- " The meteor of Chantry slammed into them, crushing their bones –

Hawke rocketed upright in bed and smacked her forehead full force against a wooden beam, causing stars to burst before her eyes. A pathetic, strangled sound somewhere between a gasp and a groan escaped her lips before she snapped them shut, remembering her place. She dug the heels of her palms into her eyes and panted heavily. She wasn't in Kirkwall any longer, fighting for the lives of the people she cared about. She was currently onboard the _Vaga de Noche_, in the crew's bunk quarters, to be precise, and she needed to shut up before she woke everyone else up. After the exhaustingly hellish day they'd all endured (which hadn't ended until they were miles into the Waking Sea and Isabela had granted them leave), everyone more than deserved their rest. And if the steady rocking back and forth was any indication, they were traversing less-than-gentle waters. Considering the delicate constitutions for seafaring that Merrill, Orana, and (though he'd never admit it) Varric possessed, it would be best for them to sleep through this rather turbulent leg of the journey. Hawke doubted Isabela would appreciate having a seasick dwarf soiling the decks.

Feeling suddenly claustrophobic, she needed to get out of the stifling cabin. Swinging her shaky legs over the edge of the bunk, she dropped with an uncharacteristic lack of grace to the floor. Following the seams of the wooden planks with her toes in the darkness, she made her way to the stairs. As she climbed them, the smell of fresh, salt air grew stronger, calling her upwards. She pushed open the door at the top and stepped out into the cold, dying night. A few more strides carried her over to the ship's railing, where she leaned out over the water and propped herself up on her elbows. Rubbing the soreness blossoming across her forehead, she cast her eyes down to the churning depths below. They crashed unrelentingly against the belly of the ship and threw spray high into the air like the wings of griffons. Mesmerized by the waves, Hawke's keen ears only just registered the sound of soft footsteps.

A warm hand settled itself on her waist. "It's like staring into a mirror, isn't it?" came Fenris's familiar baritone. His arm curved around her back, pulling her gently against his side. Hawke shivered at the sudden warmth and some tingling feeling completely unrelated to the shift in temperature. His thumb rubbed small circles on the inside of her hip.

"What do you mean? I look like a giant, liquid mass?" she asked without looking up.

Fenris ignored her quip. "I mean gazing into all that wild, endless motion of the sea. It's like seeing the chaos within, is it not?"

Hawke sighed and straightened up. "Feeling rather insightful this morning, are we?"

She felt him tense beside her, and the circles stopped as he began to speak. "After my second escape from Danarius, when I killed the fog warriors, I slipped onto a boat bound for mainland Tevinter from Seheron. I remember watching the tossing waves; I used to stare at them for hours. There was something calming about them, in knowing that there existed something more restless and confused than even myself."

Hawke lifted her eyes to look at his face, but his gaze was fixed on the horizon. Fenris rarely spoke about the events of his escape. She moved closer, pressing her side more fully against his.

"Besides. It doesn't take much _insight_ to see that you're distressed. You cannot hide your emotions any more than I can hide these markings." He held out his hand – free of its gauntlet – and turned it about, inspecting the twisting lyrium veins. His dark brow and upper lip curled in resentment. The embittered expression was wiped away, however, when Hawke took his hand and laced their fingers together.

"You heard me dreaming, didn't you? I hope I didn't wake you."

"No, I was awake. You were muttering in your sleep for nearly an hour. I was about to rouse you when you started moaning, but you woke yourself up before I reached you." The corners of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "How is your head, by the way?"

Hawke heard the tease in his voice. "Just _fine_, thank you," she said and knocked her hip playfully against his leg. She used the momentum to pull away from his hold, leaving them both suddenly cold, but she wanted to get a better look at his face. She tilted her head back and looked up at him then, at his bow-shaped lips, aquiline nose, his fine, dark brow set beneath a thick sweep of snow white hair. And his eyes, green as a shaded holly grove.

She could tell from the slight movement of those eyes that he was studying her, too. They roamed over her prominent cheekbones, the dusting of freckles splayed across her nose and cheeks, and lingered for a moment on the fullness of her lower lip. When it curved into a smile, his eyes flitted up to meet hers. They bored into him like twin turquoise jewels. Feeling a familiar tightness in his chest, Fenris reached out and took a piece of her long hair between his fingers. When the sun rose, the bright strands would glow like red gold.

"Do you want to tell me about your dream? It seemed to upset you." For a rare moment, his voice sounded a little unsure.

Hawke couldn't help but smile up again at Fenris. The warrior had never been very skilled at consoling others, but he made the effort to try, at least for her. After her pause, she turned her body to face the ocean. The stars were beginning to fade from the sky, and a touch of lightness had crept onto the Northern horizon. "I'm sure you could guess. I saw the explosion obliterate the Chantry and half of Hightown. I saw all those people going about their business and their shopping and toting along their children, only to have their lives suddenly crushed out of them. And Anders… he said things to me, things I had always worried about."

Fenris shifted his weight between his feet. "What things?"

Hawke shook her head. "It doesn't matter." Maker knew Fenris didn't need yet another reason to despise Anders, especially if she'd only conjured it in the chaos of a nightmare.

"If you're sure." He was curiously unsatisfied with her answer but chose not to press her further. After a brief pause, as if he had delayed while weighing some decision, he stated, "It is no wonder that your sleep is troubled, considering the choices you have made that are weighing on your mind."

It was Hawke's turn to stiffen. "You mean the decision to save innocent lives?"

"That, and… others."

"You would have done things differently, I know." Her hands had wrapped themselves around the railing, and her knuckles turned bone white from the strain of her grip. "If you had been in my place, you would have killed Anders."

"Yes, I would have." He saw her shoulders begin to shake, and he heard the tiniest sound that might have been a sob.

"You probably would have been right. Of course he needed to be punished. But I couldn't... Anders was my friend. I just couldn't do it… I should have –"

"No," his response was sharp and unhesitant, even for Fenris. "Do not misunderstand me; I have no love for that abomination. The world would be a better place if it were rid of him." He swept his hand through the air for emphasis, as if it were an eager blade slicing through the mage's back. Or just a hand, searching for a heart to crush. The hand lowered, and his voice resumed its usual vibrato. "But I am glad you did not kill him. If you had, you wouldn't be Vivian Hawke."

Hawke turned to face Fenris then, her eyes wet and shining. She found him with his hands folded neatly behind his back, standing resolutely beside her. His chin jutted forward in an obstinate, almost defiant expression, as if daring her to challenge him. The sight of the wetness glistening on her lashes softened something in his eyes, however, and he couldn't resist brushing aside a few strands of honey-coloured hair from her face.

She rewarded him with another smile, although sadness clung to it like a stubborn frost. "Fenris, what have I done? What have I involved us all in this time?"

"That much of the future is uncertain, Hawke, but I meant what I said at the Gallows. Whatever happens, my place is with you."

The winter on her smile melted, and she gathered herself onto her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his lips. Fenris brought his hand up to her cheek to rub the unshed tear from her eyelashes with his thumb. Achingly aware of his own longing for her touch, his other hand squeezed her waist. A couple lucky fingers slipped between the junctures of the laces down the sides of her tunic and slid against her warm, soft skin.

A great crash sounded from the doorway to the crew quarters behind them, followed by a feminine yelp, the mad barking of an alarmed mabari, a hailstorm of dwarven curses, and a chorus of Merrill's mortified apologies. "Oh, I'm sorry, so sorry! I must have landed on Loki when I fell out of bed, poor thing. Now, there's no need for _that_ sort of language, Varric. Honestly, you don't know anything about my mothe-"

The rest of Merrill's words of contrition and reproof were drowned out by Loki's thunderous yowls.

Hawke had to pull away from Fenris's lips when she failed to suppress a giggle, and the elf wondered if he was perhaps even more irritated with the little witch's clumsiness than Varric was. "Honestly, Hawke," he said. "Is that a dragon you've got down there or a dog? He roars so loud that the entire ship will be awake by now."

"Nope, Loki's definitely a dog, although his breath at times is just as lethal as any dragon's."

Fenris chucked in a low timbre.

As if on cue, the great mabari bounded up the stairs from the crew quarters and lunched himself delightedly at his master. She could have dodged, but she let him knock her down to the floor, tussling with him on the deck. He lapped mercilessly at her neck and cheeks, huffing on her face. She laughed bodily as she tried to throw him off, tickled into near-hyperventilation by his affectionate onslaught. "Fenris, help! I'm dying!"

The elven warrior watched them toss about at his feet in a tangle of dog and human limbs. His lips curved into a grin. "No, I'm afraid I'm going to let you fight this battle on your own."

"But your – ahahaha! Your vow! You swore to," she gasped, "stand by my side!"

"And I'm doing just that. Standing. By your side."

She looked up at him in the brief moment when Loki's enormous head wasn't blocking her line of sight. "Traitor!" she cried out. Her eyes glittered with mirth, and Fenris caught a glimpse of the gleeful, laughing girl she must have been before the Blight cast her from Ferelden. True, Hawke was – as a rule – quick to smile and laugh, but the easy joy he saw rolling at his feet had been largely tempered out of her by years of unending battles and the loss of loved ones.

Maker, her laughter was music.

Varric chose that moment to emerge at the top of the stairs, leaning against the door frame subtly for support. He watched the hurricane of dog hair and Hawke rolling about on the deck. "Ah, how perfect," he rasped, his voice still gravely with sleep. "Death by dog breath. A fitting end for the brave Champion of Kirkwall."

Fenris spared the dwarf an amused glance before looking out at the horizon once more. A glint of light had caught his eye. The torment of a night had finally ended, and a sliver of sun began to rise over the ocean. He thought of Hawke's kiss, of her lips. The sun painted the sky and sea a dazzling shade of red, not unlike the colour of –

* * *

><p><em>- Blood<em>, she thought to herself. _The sunrise is just the colour of blood_. It spilled out across the sky like a fresh knife wound flowing onto a white tablecloth. She smiled. The comparison pleased her. But she could not afford to let such trifling thoughts distract her, not while she was expecting such… operative guests. Her eyes fell lazily onto the mage's staff leaning beside her before she let her lids close. She placed her hands in a tidy fold on the desk. She breathed in the spicy scent of the incense burning in the tray by the open balcony. The morning breeze wafted it into the room.

A soft knock broke the silence.

"Speak," ordered the woman.

"Mistress?" a meek female voice sounded from beyond the massive wooden door. "The men you ordered are here to see you."

"Show them in, then."

"As you wish, Mistress."

She heard the pattering of small feet, then the heavier footfalls of a larger group before the door swung open into her study. Two handsome men, a human and an elf, stood before her, their shrewd eyes shifting about the room. They took in their surroundings quickly, strategically, as they strode toward her. They were cloaked, and she was certain she'd find a full arsenal of daggers and poison stings hidden beneath the black cloth. Their eyes landed on her, and there was something feral about the intensity of their stares. She found it rather alluring.

"Gentlemen, I'm so pleased you entertained my summons."

"It is the greatest honour for an Antivan Crow to provide his services to such a distinguished personage as yourself, my Lady. I am Aristos, and may I introduce my associate, Cassius," purred the elf in a heavy Antivan accent. The man beside him bowed his head as a sign of respect. The elf lifted one of the woman's smooth white hands and laid a kiss upon it. As he pulled his lips away, he tasted something sharp, like sparks and static.

"The pleasure is mine," she said while peering into his amber orbs. They glowed beneath his dark brow. Her ruby lips parted in a smile, and she watched the two men from between her curtains of black hair.

"Might I inquire about the carvings on the doors?" he gestured an olive-skinned hand at the room's entryway. "The image is truly exquisite. If I am not mistaken, the dragon-like being spearing all those men beneath his claws is Dumat – "

"The Old God of Silence, yes. He's teaching the Archon Thalsian the secrets of blood magic." The woman smiled at the elf, but her eyes – as heavy and grey as lead – remained cold.

"Ah, as I thought. A fine choice for such an esteemed Magister," purred Aristos.

"Thank you, but the selection was not mine. This estate was commissioned by my late father. He was recently murdered in Kirkwall, a city in the Free Marches. Do you know it?"

"My condolences," he answered and bowed his head. The woman said nothing, and if she felt any grief at the mention of her sire's demise, her eyes did not betray it. The elf continued, "Kirkwall? Yes, I know it: the notorious City of Chains."

"Excellent. You see, the proposal I would like to discuss with you involves the woman responsible for my father's death, and she resides there."

"You wish us to… _dispose_ of her?" said Cassius. His voice was the smooth growl of a tiger teasing its prey.

"No, the proposition I have for you is more delicate than that, I'm afraid. I have greater designs for her than simple assassination. That is why I contacted the Crows for this task. Assassins though you are, your mastery of your art equips you with the skills required of this assignment. You see," she said, pushing a section of hair behind her ear, "this woman has something of mine, and I want you to retrieve it for me."

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><p>AN: Special thanks to all those who have read, subscribed to, favourited, and especially reviewed this story. Like every other author on here, I'm trying to improve my writing, so any input is greatly appreciated. To Sphinxes, Dragonlover131313, and Alaskantiger: I'm glad you're enjoying the work, and I'll do my best to keep you rapt. Eloquent Jane: I know exactly how you feel! I finished the game and agonized over the lack of story continuations, so I let my imagination blaze the trail you're reading.


	4. Chapter 4: A Destination

**The Hunted**

**Chapter Four: A Destination**

Fenris had been right; the round of insane canine barking woke everyone on the _Vaga de Noche_ with a jolt, save Isabela, who had been manning the ship's helm. Having spent countless nights over the past six years holed up in caves and mountain passes with the mabari, Hawke's companions were conditioned to accept Loki's signature wake-up call as business as usual. Never mind that they were all officially wanted by every authority in the Free Marches they could think of. They now bustled about the ship, trying to make themselves useful.

Aveline – never content to sit still – had relegated herself to making an inventory of the goods and supplies onboard. (Castillon's records, she found, had been rather shoddy). Merrill occupied herself by climbing up to the crow's nest, where she scoured the horizon for signs of other vessels. Thirty-some feet below her, Fenris tightened the appropriate ropes and gave slack to others. They all slipped out of kilter so easily, he noticed, as if they were consciously trying to come undone. Varric was supposed to be assisting him, but every time the dwarf moved away from the edge of the deck, his stomach gave an almighty lurch. He clung to the wooden railing as he would grip Bianca when surrounded by darkspawn: as if his life depended on it. Loki, meanwhile, devoted himself to ridding the ship of its thriving rat population. Immediately after his early morning romp with his master, he set off on the hunt with his muzzle to the floor and his tail a-wag. Bethany sat in the middle of the main deck, mending the frayed edges of a spare sail with magic. She ran her fingers along the loosened seams, and they pulled themselves obediently back together. Hawke – who had always been hopeless at all things domestic – had tried her hand at sewing them earlier and gave up after jamming the needle so far under her thumb nail that it ran red with blood. After a few choice expressions she'd picked up from Isabela ("Maker's balls, Hawke! You'll be smote with lighting for that!" she teased), Hawke was only too happy to pass the task off to her sister, who struggled to swallow her giggles.

The pirate dragged Hawke up the stairs to the helm after that, where she tried to explain to Hawke and Donnic the finer points of steering and navigating a small trading vessel. A ship's helm couldn't be left unattended while out to sea, unless the crew had dropped anchor in deep water. As Isabela was the only person aboard with any experience sailing, she hadn't yet had a chance to sleep. True, she'd grown accustomed to long days of freeing runaway mages and crushing slaving rings with Hawke, followed by debauched, wild nights at the Hanged Man. However, she still wanted more than anything to train up the pair of them so that she could finally crash in the captain's cabin without having to worry about her ship being run aground.

"See now, Donnic. Just be _gentle_ with her. If you need to turn to avoid something, give her as much notice as you can, and _ease_ into it. It takes her a minute to respond, you know?"

The guardsman gave Isabela a curt nod and placed his hands on two of the helm's spokes. To his credit, Hawke observed, he was remarkably civil to them all, considering they'd just stolen him from his city and thrown him in with a band of dangerous fugitives. He began turning the wheel still a little too hard.

Touched with sudden inspiration, Isabela tried again: "Just pretend she's Aveline. Try to force something on a big girl like her, and you'll be lucky to get away with your balls intact."

Donnic's eyebrows rocketed up beneath his bangs, "I _beg _your pardon!"

"You're welcome to my pardon, dear ser, but only because you eased up on the helm. See how we're turning now? That's the ticket." She turned to Hawke and said conspiratorially, "What do you know? Men _can _be taught. I wonder how hard Aveline had to ride him to get – "

"_Madame!_" shouted Donnic as he hunched over the helm. The tips of his ears were so red they might have been sunburned.

"Right," began Hawke, eager to change the subject before Isabela started narrating her musings of Aveline's preferred sex positions. Hawke shivered at the thought; some things were best left unimagined. "Isabela, would you mind telling me about – "

"Oh, breakfast!" chirped Merrill. While the elf scurried down from the crow's nest, Hawke looked down from the upper deck onto the main and saw that Orana had emerged from the ship's belly, carrying a small box with an image of a deer inked onto it. Hawke couldn't help but feel giddy at the thought of appeasing the hungry beast writhing in her stomach. Within minutes, she and the rest of her companions gathered around the timid ex-housekeeper. The promise of sustenance lured even Varric away from this death grip on the railing, although he looked as pale and clammy as… well, a seasick dwarf.

Orana blushed, flustered at having become the focus of everyone's attention. She suddenly seemed fascinated with the toes of her sandals. "I'm sorry. It really isn't much," she said while lifting the lid off the box, "but there isn't much food to be had down there. I hope no one minds dried venison."

"Are you kidding? This is perfect, Orana. Thank you," smiled Hawke. She clapped the tiny woman on the shoulder for emphasis.

"Sweet thing, I haven't eaten in nearly two days. I'd wolf down fish guts if you slapped them in front of me," answered Isabela.

"Boh, thank you for that _delightful_ image," groused Fenris. He selected two particularly large strips of venison from the box and handed one to Hawke. Ravenous, he chomped onto his piece of meat and tore it with his pronounced canines.

"Oh, don't get any ideas, you two," said Merrill. Her eyes grew to the size of small plumbs in her sincerity. "I had to eat fish guts once. It wasn't nice at all. I had to pluck all those little bones out from between my teeth when I didn't get them all, and anyway, I think they'd been left out in the sun too long, since they smelled an awful lot like – "

Everyone save Orana stared at Merrill as if she'd just sprouted a second head with pincers instead of teeth. Varric turned a delicate shade of green and shuffled back to the edge of the deck.

"Um, Merrill, thank you for your concern, but now is _not_ the time for that story," said Hawke. She tried to smile, but her expression warped around thoughts of rotten fish innards and came out as a pained grimace.

"It will _never_ be time for that story," corrected Fenris. He stuffed his half-eaten strip of venison into a pouch at his hip. Merrill had a gift for making him lose his appetite.

"You know what it _is_ time for?" said Hawke. She had always considered herself a master of segue. "A decision. We need to choose our destination, where we want to start over, or at least lie low for the time being. We can't just sail eastward on Isabela's ship forever."

"And why's that?" The Rivaini woman sounded almost indignant.

"No offense, Isabela, but I don't think all of us are as ready to dedicate our lives to piracy as you are. Honestly, do you really think Varric will find his calling on the ocean?"

"It certainly is speaking to his stomach," returned Isabela.

"Trying to tear it out of him, is more like," said Aveline.

Merrill's eyes widened again in surprise. "Tear it out of him? Fenris, have you been – "

"All right, now that we've successfully established that we won't be pursuing lives aboard nautical vessels, let's get back to the point. Any thoughts on where we should relocate?" interrupted Hawke, obviating what she was sure would have been a spectacular exchange of vitriol between Merrill and Fenris. Sometimes Hawke worried that the Dalish mage _wanted_ dangerous creatures – such as pride demons, blightwolves, or (worst of all) Fenris – to remove some of her body parts.

Everyone quieted for a moment, their eyes still on Hawke. Finally Bethany spoke, "Well, sister, why don't we return to Ferelden? We know the land, and we have friends there who would help us."

Hawke crossed her arms, looking thoughtful. She had wondered if Bethany would suggest they return to their homeland. Her own mind had jumped there initially. It was her first home, after all, and not a long ride across the Waking Sea. But those were exactly the reasons why she knew they could not return there. Not yet. "You make a fine point, but we cannot go back to Ferelden. The Templars and the Chantry will learn – if they don't already know – that we fled Lothering during the Blight. Make no mistake; that destination is obvious to us, and so it will be obvious to them."

"Your sister is right, Bethany," supplied Fenris. His years of enslavement as a bodyguard had trained him to anticipate the movements of the opposition. "Ferelden is the first place anyone searching for Hawke will surmise to look. Going there would be playing directly into the hands of the enemy."

"The enemy, Fenris?" Hawke gave him a questioning look. Despite all the animosity between herself and the Chantry's warriors, she didn't consider them her enemies. They were all victims of circumstance forced into fighting each other.

"Anyone who tries to kill you is my enemy, Hawke."

"How sweet! Oh, Hawke, you never told me he was _romantic_," cooed Isabela with a vicious smile. She didn't so much as flinch at the elf's flashing eyes.

"What about Rivain? Most people up there aren't Andrastians, are they? The Chantry's eyes and influence will be limited," said Aveline, ever the voice of reason.

"Ou! I've heard that the Rivaini get on well with elves. Keeper Marethari always spoke of a permanent Dalish settlement near the southern coast. I've always wanted to go. The Dalish there have cultivated this particular herb – kestle root – that allows the mind to channel the Fade more fully and – "

"How wonderful," deadpanned Fenris. "A plant that makes mages even more susceptible to demonic possession. I might just break out into song and dance if we decide to go _there_."

"As much as I'd love to see that, handsome, I'm officially vetoing Rivain as an option," said Isabela. All of Merrill's facial features – including her long, thin ears – drooped in disappointment. She looked positively crushed.

Hawke sighed and arched her brow at the pirate. "What kind of trouble did you get into back home, then?"

The other woman laughed. It sounded a little pained, as if a hand had a tight grip on her vocal cords. "Well, nothing _too _major. I just stole some of the cargo from one of the chief smuggling rings in Sevmerryn. The last time I saw the boss, he swore to mount my ass above his hearth and use it for target practice. But that's nothing, really. I'm more concerned about the Qunari, or have you forgotten that they're still after my blood? Considering the number of Rivaini who have converted to the Qun, I wouldn't fancy setting up shop there." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "All that aside, I'm sure the Qunari would be _tickled_ to receive you Hawke, what with your killing their Arishok."

"I think we can strike Rivain off the list, then," nodded Hawke.

"Agreed," said Varric, still haunting the railing. "Their beer tastes like mabari piss anyway."

"You've drank mabari piss, have you?" Isabela cocked her hip out, looking edgy.

"Only in Rivaini taverns." The dwarf smiled.

"What about Antiva?" asked Hawke as she took a seat next to Bethany on a crate. Her sister had long since finished her breakfast and had returned to mending the sail. Without even thinking about it, Fenris moved a couple steps toward Hawke, who had left his side.

"Oh, Antiva would be perfect! The people there are so _fun_!" grinned the pirate.

"Oh, 'fun.' Is that what you call over-sexed, conniving thieves and whores?" asked Fenris.

"Look at you, Fenris, getting all excited over the thought of some Antivan ass. What will Hawke think?" Hawke shot Isabela a fierce scowl, which only made Isabela's smirk deepen. The Rivani woman loved touching off nerves almost as much as she loved Wenches' Night at the Hanged Man. Especially if those nerves belonged to people who just needed to get on with shagging each other. If she had to see that elf stare at Hawke with those pained, longing eyes for much longer, she might just gag.

"I'm serious," said Hawke, who didn't miss the devious glint in Isabela's eyes, not that it concerned her, "Antiva's a viable option. Antiva City is a huge port; we could easily get lost there amongst the crowds. And with all the trade and merchants from abroad in the area, foreigners wouldn't stand out as much as they would elsewhere."

Aveline, who had been considering Hawke's proposal, nodded. "And the Chantry – while present – doesn't have as potent an influence there as it does in other cities. Most of the power in Antiva lies with the merchant princes. And the Crows, of course."

Donnic finally spoke up. "You know, Antiva has other advantages yet. My uncle – an older fellow – owns a vineyard not a great distance from the city. Perhaps I could persuade him to help some of us find work. I'm sure he'll at least take in Aveline and me, until we get back onto our feet, that is."

"Excellent," said Hawke. "Does anyone object to sailing for Antiva City, then?" No one spoke up. Most just nodded their approval.

"It's finally settled, then!" cried the Dalish mage. "Antiva City! How exciting! It's so much bigger than Kirkwall, you know. I heard that they even have two separate Alienages."

"That's great, Merrill," said Hawke. "We'll be sure to explore them when we get there. You know, that actually raises an important question I'm sure we're all wondering. Isabela, any idea how long it will be until we reach our new port?"

"Well, we're nearly to Ostwick now. Once we pass Brandel's Reach, we'll turn north, and we'll have to sail out of sight of the coast. Under good wind conditions, it'll still be at least two weeks."

"Two weeks," repeated Hawke, smiling. "I think we can survive that long as your passengers."

"Ugh, speak for yourself," said Varric. "If I ever get off this damn boat of yours, Isabela, I'm never letting my feet get farther away from the ground than the height of a barstool."

A/N: A slower chapter, yes, but I wanted to settle a bit into who it is that I'm writing… which is why this one is mostly dialogue. The experience has felt like trying on several different pairs of pants… Or, in Isabela's case, one hell of a pair of boots. Anyway, I've outlined the next chapter, and it's going to be pretty beastly.

Eloquent Jane: Oh, I know! Merrill is completely adorable. Terribly frustrating, utterly naïve, but completely adorable. As you've noticed, these attributes form a constellation of hilarity.

Jem Jemz: Thanks for the support. I appreciate your encouragement. =)

Alaskantiger: Well, if you're Hawke, and you can't seem to go for a nighttime stroll without stirring up someone to kill you, I'd say you can accumulate quite a few enemies. While she doesn't exactly love the fighting, somewhere inside her, she takes this as a compliment. It shows she must be doing _something_ right.

GrimsonAshes: Well, thanks! I'll try to keep the "awesome" coming. This chapter was meant to build it.

TanithAerys: I hope my story keeps piquing your interest. Sorry you had to wait longer than I would have liked for this installment…

Onba: Thank you for your encouragement! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, as well. =)


	5. Chapter 5: Hands

A/N:

Dear Bioware,

Should you demand compensation for my unsanctioned use the _Dragon Age_ universe and its inhabitants, you are welcome to abduct me and mold me into an indentured writing servant.

Love,

Sasha

* * *

><p><strong>The Hunted<strong>

**Chapter Five: Hands**

Aristos fished a couple bronze bits out of a pouch at his waist and laid them on the grimy counter.

"Thank you, Ser elf. I hope you enjoyed your stay at our little inn," said the dumpy, smiling woman from behind the partition as she tucked away the coins. "And you too, Ser," she added, turning her blue eyes to Cassius. "Come back and see Rosie again soon, won't you?"

"That will be all, Madame," said the elf. He never intended to set foot in this dingy hovel again. He might have been raised in the underbelly of Antiva's streets, but even he had standards. He'd better not have gotten lice from those lumpy excuses for pillows.

Aristos was nearly out the door when he heard her voice from over his shoulder. "If I see your friend Hail, I'll be sure to let you know you're looking for her!"

The assassin stopped, turned his head, and gave her practiced smile. "How very kind of you," he said before stepping outside. Once the door closed behind him, he stared daggers at Cassius, who looked back passively.

The elf waited until they were walking past open fields of wheat where no one but the birds could overhear them before he spoke again. "I can't believe you were fool enough to mention her name. Her_ real_ name. I could kill you. Bastion _would_ have killed you. You're lucky that woman's brains are made of sawdust."

"Relax, Aristos," said the human. "There's no harm done. Our little prizes wouldn't be stupid enough to pass through Nevarra, anyway. Between the Circles in Starkhaven and Cumberland, there are too many Templars around here looking for her."

"That's not the point. Don't let it happen again, for your sake."

"As you wish," sighed Cassius as they passed by the last farm. The road carried them into the woods. "Three more days, and we'll reach Kirkwall. It won't be long after that before we've caught our little bird and her wolf and this job is over."

* * *

><p>"Oh, Maker, Fenris. This is ecstasy," moaned Hawke, arching her body in a great, catlike stretch. Donnic had just relieved her from duty at the helm, and after four hours of standing on the hard wooden floors in the full afternoon sun, a tight soreness had cramped its way into her lower back. Now that she could lie on this storage crate in the shade, she was in heaven.<p>

Fenris had been polishing his sword on the same crate when she flopped down in front of him. He watched her willowy form curve in a luxurious sprawl, arms stretched above her head like a dancer's. Her eyes were closed, but she wore a smile that betrayed true pleasure. The elf felt his mouth go dry. He could think of a few other things that were 'ecstasy,' but he'd keep those to himself. For now.

Her ruddy hair fanned around her head and shoulders, forming a mane-like halo; it took Fenris a minute to realize he was staring. He straightened his posture, gathered himself to his full height (_impressive for an elf_, he'd been told more than once), and picked up the polishing cloth again. "I'm glad you have made yourself comfortable. My workbench looked empty holding only my sword and armor," he said. A corner of his mouth turned up in a grin.

Hawke smiled in return; he didn't show off that roguish expression often enough, as far as she was concerned. "Well, what can I say? I saw this crate here covered in sharp pieces of metal, and I just thought it looked too inviting to pass up."

"You enjoy lounging on weapons, do you?" said Fenris, amused. His hand ran slowly up and down the greatsword, polishing the aurum.

"Oh yes, blades are much more comfortable for resting on than mattresses." She rolled over onto her side then, propping her head up on her arm. Her waist was a valley between the graceful slopes of her body. The elf's fingers twitched, itching to trace them. Hawke looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes and said, "Besides. The view from here is very fine."

Fenris's voice dropped to an even lower timbre, "Yes, very fine indeed." She beamed at him then, causing her nose to crinkle adorably. A surge of smug pleasure flooded through him; he'd made her blush.

"Oh, you should see the view from up _here_, then!" cried Merrill gleefully. Looking up, Fenris saw the Dalish mage climbing down from the crow's nest. "A ship just sailed by us. They're much closer to the coast," she said and pointed inland. "I could make out a couple people onboard. They looked so small, like ants! Imagine: a ship's crew made up of tiny little ants." She smiled dreamily at the thought. Then a bitter look crossed her eyes, as if she'd just thought of something unpleasant. "I don't actually care for ants," she said. "They were crawling all over my house in the alienage – on the floor, the walls, the table. I even found a few in my bed."

Hawke bit her tongue to keep from laughing.

Merrill continued, "They'd sometimes bite me in my sleep. I'd wake up all sore and itchy." She inspected her arms, as if expecting to see them peppered with insects. She looked up at Hawke and Fenris, worried. "You haven't seen any ants on the ship, have you?"

The woman snorted. "I think you're safe, Merrill. I haven't seen any. What about you, Fenris? Spotted any ants?"

"Not a one," said the elf dutifully.

The little mage relaxed. "Oh, good. Well, I've got to let Donnic know that we're nearly to Antiva City, what with him steering the ship, and all. I can see it in the distance." She flitted away toward the helm.

Fenris turned back to Hawke, who was still reclined atop the crate. "Now, where were we?"

She shook her head with a smile and pointed somewhere behind him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Orana walking towards them from the direction of the crew quarters. Her straw blonde hair blew about in the wind, and she tucked a strand behind her leaf-shaped ear. The wind pulled it back out a second later. Hawke sat up cross-legged on the crate as the elf approached. The tiny woman came to a stop by the pile of Fenris's armor, wary of getting any closer to the other elf. She smiled at Hawke, but the corners of her lips shook when she glanced at Fenris.

Fenris frowned at this. She was afraid of him. Not that frightening people merely by breathing in their general direction was anything new to him. Still, Orana was one of the few creatures in Kirkwall for whom he had any sympathy. She had been a slave, like him. They'd both known the torment of Hadriana's magics... The way they could burrow into your skull through your eyes, your ears, your mouth, until there was nothing inside your head but raw, writhing agony. His expression soured at the memory.

Seeing his face twist, Orana looked away. The man was dangerous. The memory of him (_light snaking on his skin, so much blood_) cutting a templar's head off was still fresh in her mind. She remembered his roaring during the slaughter at the docks, his predatory snarling. She knew he'd been protecting her and Hawke, but the thought of it still made the colour drain from her cheeks.

When she looked farther back in her memory, Orana remembered a night (the only night) when he'd fled from her mistress's bedchamber. Fenris hadn't even seen her, the meek, invisible servant, when he tore down the stairs and nearly knocked her over, but she had seen him. His eyes were tormented and wild, like a wolf with its bloodied paw snared in a trap. He was gone out the main exit in an instant, leaving nothing in his wake but an icy blast of wind and the softest sobs coming from behind her mistress's door. Orana had stood dutifully by the door for hours, waiting with a drooping heart for them to stop. Her new mistress was a good, kind lady, not like her last one. How could anyone have pained her so?

Orana knew she was no quickwit like her dear mistress, but she was no fool, either. The healer mage (_Anders, Serah calls him_) had visited the mansion more times than Orana could count after that night, always following her lady with wanting in his eyes. He'd school his expression when her mistress looked at him, but he never thought to shield his desires from her, Orana. This was typical; rarely did anyone hide their secrets from servants. Even the most guarded people forget that servants have eyes and ears like everyone else. But the mage's attention was never to any avail. That elf – always scowling, always ready to slice – had done something to wound her lady deeply, and no man (including Fenris) had tarried in her bedchamber since.

Hawke watched the little elf, whose features had suddenly turned vacant. Clearly, she'd become lost in thought. Orana wore a small frown, so whatever she was thinking about couldn't have been very pleasant. It would probably be best to draw her out of whatever dark thoughts she was having before they pulled the poor woman in much deeper. Hawke was about to ask Orana what she needed when Varric (who'd been vomiting much less violently over the past twenty-four hours) and Isabela burst out from the door to the mess. "_Admit it_, Varric! It _has _to be. Bianca was a mistress you took in Antiva. _Bianca is an Antivan name! _The whole thing must have been so _sordid_." The excited pitch in Isabela's voice could only be described as glee.

Varric's chest shook with laughter, "I'm not saying anything more than this, Rivaini: you're waaaay off."

"I'll know the truth soon enough. Once I spot a half-dwarven love child feeding some hapless Templar a cock-and-bull story about dragons and maleficarum in Antiva City – "

The banter continued nearby, but Orana had finally snapped out of her reverie. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Serah," she said. "My mind sometimes takes me places I don't mean to go."

Hawke and Fenris turned back to Orana. Hawke's eyes still glimmered with amusement at her friends' teasing argument, and Fenris – unaffected – resumed polishing. The woman spoke, "It's all right, Orana. We're all allowed to blank out occasionally. Anyway, what's on your mind?"

The tiny elf smiled at Hawke. "I'd meant to tell you back at the estate, but with all the fires and noise and running, I couldn't make the words to say something." Orana's expression slipped to sadness. "The looters back home… They took so much from your estate, Serah. Your family crest, your paintings, your silverware. They even took your smallclothes."

"_What?_" spat Fenris.

Isabela and Varric froze in their positions. Hawke could see the backs of their shoulders shaking with silent laughter. _Great_, she thought,_ of course they heard that._

Orana kept right on talking, oblivious to the barely-contained pandemonium she'd struck off. "But I hid this with me, Serah. I couldn't let them take it, too." She pushed something small and cool into Hawke's hand.

The woman stared at the trinket for a moment, incredulous. She ran her thumb over the thin metal strands shaped into the two birds of the Amell family crest. "Mother's locket…" Hawke hadn't seen this necklace in months, but she knew it had been sitting on her mother's bedside table, beside a withered bouquet of white lilies. After her mother's murder, she'd ordered Leandra's room to be sealed. She had respected her mother's privacy while she was alive and had made a point to enter the space only with Leandra's permission. Hawke might have been the owner of the estate, but she felt she owed her mother that courtesy. Death didn't change that.

"Please don't be angry with me for going into your mother's room," Orana stared at her hands, which were fisting in the fabric of her dress. Her voice had fallen to little more than a whisper. "I know how much you loved her. She was a good lady. I couldn't let them steal what you had left of her." She bowed her head and started to scurry away.

Hawke reached out and caught her arm. "Orana, I'll never be able to thank you enough for this." She slid off the crate and pulled the elf into a hug. Orana stiffened for a moment in the other woman's arms, then relaxed. Hawke felt the elf's tears leaking onto her shoulder. She squeezed tighter before releasing the housekeeper from her hold. Orana smiled wetly at her and rubbed the twin tear tracks off her cheeks. "Of course, Serah. I'll go see if Serah Aveline needs me below." The elf scampered over to the entrance to the crew quarters.

Isabela and Varric lasted just long enough for Orana to disappear behind the door before they started cackling like demons. "Held it in… so long. Thought my ribs… were… gonna crack." The dwarf struggled to speak between hooting chortles and gasps.

Isabela was beyond words. She'd become so weak-kneed with her laughter that she had to hold onto Varric for support. "Oh, Maker," she panted, "It's too rich. They stole your panties, Hawke! Your _panties_!" The pirate's eyes clamped shut against tears, although she couldn't stop all of them from leaking through.

Hawke rolled her eyes at the pair of them and secured the clasp of her mother's locket at the back of her neck. She shook her head, struggling not to picture what the cretins of Kirkwall might want with her unmentionables. The very thought gave her the shivers. Why did she have to be cursed with such an overactive imagination? She glanced over at Fenris, hoping to share another indulgent eye roll at Isabela's expense, but he wasn't looking at her. He was busy glaring at Isabela and Varric with poison in his eyes.

Disappointed (she did love a good eye roll), Hawke huffed a sigh and crossed her arms. "Is it really that funny, you two?" Her weight shifted so that her leg pressed against Fenris's. The elf visibly calmed, although his frown was still plastered over his mouth.

"Yes, yes it is, Hawke," chuckled Varric. His meaty hand clutched at a stitch in his side. "Even I, the Prince of Bullshit, could not have made that up. What have they got? _Shrines_ dedicated to you?"

"I _shudder_ to think of the dirty little uses they'll put your under things up to…" said Isabela with relish.

"Maker, Isabela, stop. You know the line? You're crossing it, and it's disturbing my calm," groaned Hawke. She hadn't noticed that Fenris's fists were shaking again.

"Maybe they're using your panties as polishing cloths," suggested Isabela. "You know. For private time."

"_THAT'S ENOUGH!_" roared Fenris, slamming his bare fist down on the crate beside him. The wood gave way beneath the force of the blow and splintered beneath his hand. He didn't seem to notice that he was bleeding.

"Fenris!" shouted Hawke. She moved over to take his forearm and inspect the damage he'd done to himself. Cuts were carved into his hand from the wrist down, and a chunk of wood was lodged in the heel of his palm. _Well, isn't this lovely?_ _I need a tourniquet._

Hawke was about to unshackle one of her belts when Isabela, looking royally pissed, hissed, "What the hell's the matter with you? If you're jealous because half the men of Kirkwall have stolen more access to Hawke's smalls than you have, that's your own blighted fault."

Fenris blanched. He felt as if he'd just been dumped in ice water and electrocuted, and he _did_ know what that felt like. He turned on his heel, but before he stalked off, he shot Isabela a glare so murderous that if looks could kill, Hawke would have been down one friend and up a few dozen meat cubes.

A stunned silence hung in his wake. Very calmly, Hawke finally spoke. "Thank you for that, Isabela. I'm going to go find Fenris before he destroys something else or bleeds out." She took off after the elf.

"You know, Rivaini… You might have taken that a bit too far. Broody's very sensitive about his Hawke, after all," said Varric.

Isabela sighed. "Maybe. I'll think about jamming a polearm up my ass, okay? That way I might be able to understand him better. But right now, I'm going to go make sure Donnic doesn't run us aground; we're nearly to Antiva City."

* * *

><p>It didn't take Hawke long to locate Fenris. The drops of blood he left behind made tracking him pretty easy. She found him in the hold of the ship, hunkered down between a cannon and a barrel of gunpowder. <em>How appropriate<em>, she thought. He didn't look up at her as she approached.

"Well," she said, sitting down beside him, "this is cozy."

Fenris's scowl deepened. His arms were tucked firmly across his chest.

She pushed open the closest cannon flap, and light poured into the hold. "Let me look at your hand, will you?" She set her palms on his right forearm and gently pulled, trying to coax him to release his arm.

Fenris flinched at the softness of her touch. He saw the concern flash through her eyes – she never could hide anything she felt – before she pulled her hands away as if his skin had burned her. He felt suddenly ashamed.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, "I'm trying to be gentle. I didn't think that would hurt. Maybe I should get Bethany." She got to her knees.

The trepidation in her voice only made him feel worse. Now he was making her feel guilty. Could he really do _nothing_ right with Hawke? "No, you're fine," he said, putting his uninjured hand on her shoulder as she started to rise. "Your touch didn't hurt me. It never does." He paused for a moment as she sat back down. She looked at him patiently as ever. He surrendered his bloodied hand to her lap and sighed. "I am sorry for startling you. Gentleness is not the touch I have been conditioned to expect after sustaining an injury."

Hawke felt a thorny surge of hatred for Fenris's dead master. "Danarius was a monster," she said and took the warrior's hand delicately into her own. She first inspected the tourniquet he'd made, nodding her approval. The bleeding had all but stopped. "You know," she said as she looked over the damage, "you mustn't take Isabela so seriously when she gets like that. She was only trying to piss you off."

"It worked."

"I can see that," said Hawke flatly. She positioned her fingers over a particularly large piece of wood lodged in the meat of his palm. "This might hurt."

The warrior didn't so much as twitch when she pulled it out. "I know I shouldn't have let her provoke me."

"Her barbs don't usually do such a good job on you."

"Her barbs aren't usually so accurate."

Hawke kept her eyes on the debris she was plucking out of the elf's hand. "How were these accurate, exactly?"

"Because she's right. I was a blighted fool for leaving you that night. When I think about the past three years, all the time I wasted… It makes me sick."

"You've got to stop this, Fenris. How are you going to live in the present with me if you can't leave the past in the past?" She let go of his hand and swept his unruly hair away from his eyes. The warrior relaxed at the feather-soft touch of her fingers as they glided across his forehead.

"How is it that you're always right?" He closed his eyes and willed her to keep stroking his hair.

Hawke smirked. "Instinct." A rustling noise came from the direction of the stairs, and she looked over to see Bethany coming towards her.

"Ah, found you. I guess the blood trail was fairly obvious. Isn't it amazing that even on a ship devoid of enemies, people still manage to get themselves torn up?" The mage knelt down beside her sister. "Let me see that hand, Fenris. Varric told me it needed patching up."

"It's fine," said the elf.

"Don't be difficult. I'm only trying to help."

"Come on, Fenris. Let her heal you before an infection sets in. Do you really trust the cleanliness of Isabela's ship enough to risk it?" she asked.

Fenris looked at Hawke. She was grinning again, of course, because she knew that she'd won. Sighing in defeat, he held out his hand to Bethany.

"Honestly, for a battle-hardened warrior, you can be such a _baby_," the mage teased. She rubbed her hands together for a moment, and a green light began to glow around them. She ran them over the elf's, and soon the light began to slip into it.

Fenris grunted. "I am _not_ a baby."

The boat lurched heavily to one side. Bethany would have toppled over onto Fenris if Hawke hadn't steadied her.

"_Andraste's tits!"_ Isabela's screaming voice emanated from somewhere above them. "What the hell was that, Donnic? I said take it _easy_!"

"Please tell me we didn't just hit a rock," said the rogue.

"No, it was probably the dock," her sister answered. She ran a finger slowly along a particularly deep cut, and the skin knitted itself together beneath her touch. "We were just sailing into the city when I started looking for you. It's beautiful, Vivian. The buildings are so tall, and some of them have these huge domes topped with bell houses. What are they called? Cupolas? I've never seen anything like it."

After a few more seconds, Bethany pulled her hands away. "There. How does your hand feel?"

Fenris flexed his fingers, enjoying the feeling of having his skin back together. "Much better, thank you."

"Of course." The mage stood up and brushed off her knees. "Well, come on, you two! Let's get back up top so you can see – "

"There you are!" came Aveline's voice from the stairs. "Thank the Maker I found you so fast. Get over here, quick!" She held a mage's staff in one hand.

"Oh blight it all, we _did_ hit a rock, didn't we?" groaned Hawke. She and the others hurried over to Aveline. Fenris was frowning again. "What are you doing with Merrill's staff?" she asked.

The former guard captain beckoned her friends forward and led them deeper into the ship along the keel. "No, we're docked all right, and the Antivan port authority has come aboard. They're searching the ship for stolen cargo. And apostates."

Bethany paled. "Is that customary, or has news of the chantry in Kirkwall already spread?"

"Antiva knows about the chantry, yes, but ship searches have always been standard procedure here. The Antivans are world-class merchants. Most of their country's wealth comes from the trade of goods. So, the authorities are always trying to bear down on the black market. They don't want smugglers cutting into their profits, so they check incoming ships for stolen property. But we don't know if they're on the lookout for any of us, too. Maybe they never will be. But there's no point in taking any chances. If they recognize one of us, it'll be Fenris with his markings or you, Hawke, the great Champion of Kirkwall. That means you've both got to hide." Aveline knelt down and started feeling blindly on the dark floor. "Isabela told me that there was a loose board around here that leads to a secret hold. Castillon used it for smuggling slaves. Ah, got it!" Wedging her fingernails, she pied a board off the floor.

Footsteps on the stairs. Men's voices.

"They're here. Quick, get down there, and take these," hissed Aveline. She snatched Bethany's staff from her hand and shoved it along with Merrill's into Hawke's arms.

Hawke slipped through the narrow entrance and found herself in a horribly tight space. She had plenty enough room from side to side, but there was barely a foot between the floor of the hold and the planks above. She shifted herself away from the opening, using her shoulders and the heels of her feet to move. She held onto the staves to keep them from clattering against the boards.

Fenris looked at the loose plank with contempt. He hated the thought of crawling on his belly into some dark hole meant for slaves. But the footsteps were drawing closer, and discovery could mean more fighting. More running. Setting his jaw, he slid silently into the hold. He watched Aveline slide the board over the opening an instant later, washing him in total darkness. He could feel Hawke's warmth beside him, and he could see the cargo hold above him though the thin cracks between the slats.

"You! What are you doing there on the floor?" shouted a man in a heavy Antivan accent.

"Scooping up a pile of mabari shit. Would you like to inspect that as well?" said Aveline smoothly. She hadn't moved from atop the loose board.

"Don't get smart with us, Ferelden," another man growled. He must have picked up on Aveline's accent. "And what about you, little girl?"

"I was, er, bringing her a cloth for the mess. She forgot one," came Bethany's voice from above.

If she weren't so averse to being caught, Hawke would have banged her head against the floor. Her sister was a terrible liar.

Neither Antivan seemed to notice. "Whatever," said the first. "Get back up top and stay out of our way. We've got a job to do."

"As you wish," answered Bethany.

Hawke listened to two pairs of boots walk down the cargo hold and up the stairs at the far end. She closed her eyes, relieved, and leaned her head against Fenris's shoulder. It was wet and stuffy in the hold, and it smelled of filth, but at least they were hidden. She rubbed the wood of the two staves, taking comfort in their familiar warmth.

"Check over there just in case, will you? There might be a trap door. Look for hinges," said the first Antivan. "I'm going to check these crates over here."

Footsteps. They came closer, closer. Stopped directly overhead. The sound of fingertips sweeping over the boards.

Hawke held her breath, and she felt Fenris's hand snaking down her leg. He was going for the dagger he knew she kept tucked in her boot. With the staves occupying her hands, she couldn't reach it, but he could. She lifted her knee to bring it closer to him and soon felt the cool slide of metal against the skin of her calf.

The man above them was crawling on his hands and knees. Hawke could hear his breath come in and out in a rattling wheeze. He was right on top of the loose plank. What if he noticed there weren't any nails in it? She pressed closer to Fenris, ready to claw her way through the man above if necessary.

"There's nothing here," said the Antivan, finally. His hands were inches above Hawke's face. "I'm getting up before I run my hands through dog shit. You find anything?"

"No, nothing that isn't registered on the ship's inventory. Just a bunch of leather goods, a few antiques, some bolts of linen, and light arms. I nicked a couple… donations for us."

"Good," said the other man as he got off his knees and started walking. "Let's get off this miserable ship then. It's infested with elves. Did you see those knife-eared bitches on deck? In-bound for the brothels, I'll wager. That's all they're good for, anyway."

Fenris sensed Hawke tensing beside him. The staves were getting warmer in her grip, not that the elf could tell.

"If they're headed for the whore houses, I hope they bring that sweet young brunette we chased out of the hold with them. That's one morsel I'd love to taste.

Chuckling. "Just don't break her hips, okay?"

Fenris felt the fury rolling off Hawke in waves. _Maker_, he thought_, just make them shut up._ Hawke's fingernails dug into the staves, which, for reasons she didn't understand, had become uncomfortably hot in her hands.

More chuckling. "Come on, don't tell me you didn't look at those thighs. She could take a good, hard ride. Why don't you join me when I visit her?"

Hawke let out the tiniest gasp; the staves were _burning_ her. Fenris clamped his hand over her mouth, consequently trapping her hands against the twisting wood. He could feel her pulse racing. Hawke wanted to squirm against him but didn't dare risk making the noise. Couldn't he feel this flaming heat? Her hands were burning. It felt like she was holding two red-hot pieces of iron. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out, and the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth.

"Thank you for the offer, my friend, but I'd have to stab my eyes out if I ever saw you naked." The voices were far away now, and Fenris heard the sound of their boots climbing the stairs. He waited until he heard the door to the main deck open and close before removing his hand from Hawke's lips.

The woman gasped for breath, writhing beside him. She tried to toss away the staves, but they were married to her hands.

"What's gotten into you, Vivian? You nearly gave us away. What ever happened to 'don't let it get to you?'" he demanded in a whisper.

"The staves are burning my hands, but I can't get rid of them!"

The elf blinked. "What?" Of all the things he'd expected her to say, that was not on the list.

Her only response was to make a strangled keening sound he never wanted to hear her make again. It was the sound of pain. That's when he registered the scent of blood. Fenris reached over and grabbed both lengths of wood. He had to wretch them away from Hawke, which made her hiss. He tossed them a few feet down the hold. They hadn't even felt warm to him. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"I think so," she said, her voice soft. "But I can't feel my hands."

Fenris felt for one of her small hands and wrapped it in his fingers. It was searing hot. _What is this magic? Some kind of curse? But that doesn't make sense… No one on this ship would ever try to hurt Vivian. _The warrior scowled in the dark and pulled Hawke closer to him. Her head now rested on his shoulder. _Then again, it wouldn't be the first time one of our companions betrayed her. _

Somewhere behind him, a door opened. "The coast is clear, you two. They've gone. The ugly bastards sure took long enough. It's nearly dark outside," said Aveline. She crossed the hold on swift strides and pulled up the loose board. "Sorry you had to be cramped down there so long," she said.

"Here," said Fenris, passing her the staves one at a time. "Be careful with those things; something's wrong with them. They burned Hawke."

"They did _what_?"

"You heard me." The elf pulled himself out of the floor. He turned to help Hawke, but she was nearly free.

"Just my hands, Aveline. I'm all right," she said, but the guard captain didn't miss the strain behind her voice. Hawke kicked the plank back over the opening and headed towards the stairs. When she reached the door at the top, she pushed it open with her shoulder and stepped into the fading sunlight.

"Hey, Hawke, glad to see you didn't suffocate down… Maker, what the hell's wrong with your hands?" shouted Varric.

Hawke stared down at herself, shocked. The tops of her hands were raw and blistered, and the undersides were charred black. "I burned them."

"On _what_?" asked Bethany, who came rushing over from the railing. She took her staff from Aveline and pulled Hawke down onto the floor with her. The mage's hands were already glowing with creation magic.

"On your staff and Merrill's. I was holding them, and they just kept getting hotter and hotter. It was like they were made of fire, and I couldn't let go," answered Hawke. She sighed, reveling in the cool feeling of her sister's healing spell. Fenris came to stand behind her, bristling anxiously.

"But that isn't possible," said Merrill, who'd been standing with Bethany at the railing.

"Don't tell us it isn't possible, mage. It clearly happened. Now tell us what work of dark magic this is," growled Fenris. He looked every bit as lethal as a wolf ready to kill for his mate.

"That's just it. A staff has no power without a mage to wield it. It can't generate magic. A staff can only channel it through physical contact," she answered.

Fenris's stomach lurched. He didn't like where this was going. "What are you saying?"

"Sis," said Bethany. "When you hold a mage's staff, how does it usually feel?"

"Warm. Isn't that how they feel for everybody?" She watched the pink come back cross her blackened skin.

Fenris felt like his blood had turned to ice water. He'd been around mages long enough in Tevinter to know that Hawke was wrong. Was nothing in this blighted world spared from the taint of magic? He sank slowly into a crouch beside her.

"No, it isn't," said Bethany. "Normal people can't manipulate the energy needed to create that heat."

"Oh, come on, Beth. I'm no mage. Father tested us all when we were children, remember? I have no aptitude for magic."

"You're right. You're not a mage. But you must have some magic in you, lellathan, or else this couldn't have happened," said Merrill.

"You mean, Hawke can use magic? Why couldn't she before now?" demanded Varric.

Bethany shook her head. "No, Merrill's right. Vivian isn't a mage. Her ability to manipulate the Fade is nowhere near strong enough to train, and it never will be. When I was in the Circle, I read this book about the hereditary properties of magic. The children of mages – particularly powerful mages like our father – usually turn out to be magic users themselves. But, if their sons and daughters are born without the gift, they can sometimes sense vibrations in the Fade. It's rare, but it happens. I bet Carver was the same way." Her fingers continued to dance over Hawke's, shaping the spell.

"So, what? I'm marginally magical?" asked Hawke.

"That's a good way to put it, yes," said Bethany.

"Perhaps this explains why you were able to navigate the Fade so easily when we tried to rescue that boy, Feynriel," suggested Fenris, forcing his voice to remain even.

"Maybe, but this still doesn't make sense to me. If this is my magic, why did I burn _my_ hands? That's now how it's supposed to work."

"Like Bethany said," supplied Merrill, "you've got no control, Hawke. Were you anxious or angry in the hold? That would summon your power. And since you were holding _two_ staves rather than one, the channeling would have been amplified. Since you lack the ability to put that energy to use, it would have built up in the staves and then, finding no other release, forced itself back into you."

Hawke gave a short, unamused laugh. "Great. I have just enough magic to nearly burn my hands off, but not enough to use to defend myself. It figures, really. When do I ever do anything normally?"

"Consider it a blessing," said Bethany. "I doubt you're powerful enough to attract a demon's attention." She considered for a moment. "Aside from the ones summoned to kill you, of course."

Hawke nodded. "Thank the Maker for small miracles," she said wryly. She didn't mean to be sarcastic, but this new revelation made her feel rather strange. She had magic. Sort of. How odd.

Varric chuckled from somewhere behind her. "Oh, Hawke. There's never a dull moment with you around, is there? This just keeps getting better and better." She felt his heavy hand clap her shoulder.

"Well, what do we do now? Does she need help?" asked Fenris. He watched Hawke worriedly, as if he half expected her to keel over in front of him.

"I've got a dash of magic, Fenris. Not a terminal disease," said Hawke dryly. "I'm no different than I was this morning." Saying it aloud made her feel better.

The elf looked into her eyes, nodding slowly. Vivian was still Vivian, he knew, but he was frustrated with himself. How had he never sensed it?

"There," said Bethany as the green light faded from around her hands. "I'm all done. Let's take a look at you, shall we?" She turned Hawke's hands over, palms up, and frowned. Burn scars marbled the bases of her sister's fingers. "I'm sorry about the scars, Vivian, I never was as talented as Anders at avoiding them."

Everyone stilled at the mention of the wayward mage's name. Everyone except Merrill, that is. "Oh Anders," she sighed. She seemed to think that now that someone had mentioned the man's name, he was no longer a taboo subject. "He's truly an artist with creation magic. A complete prig about blood magic, but I've never known a healer like him." She looked up over the gently sloping roofs of the multi-story buildings lining the docks. Stars had begun peeking out from the clouds. "Where do you suppose he is?"

* * *

><p>Hundreds of miles away, Anders stood in the rain, looking as miserable as a half-drowned cat. He lurked in the woods just off the road to Hasmal, a small farming town in Nevarra. He was aching, tired, and cold the bone. And he was <em>starving<em>. He'd eaten nothing but a handful of wild strawberries since fleeing Kirkwall almost three nights ago. After the battle with the Knight-Commander, he's slipped away from his companions as they left the Gallow's courtyard. The mage had been on the run ever since, and as he had no desire to be caught by the Templars (_wouldn't they just _love_ to get their gauntlets on _this_ apostate_), he'd been avoiding civilization like the plague. He didn't much fancy another night without food, but it was the rain that finally drove him to this town. After what he'd done, he knew he didn't deserve to ever be comfortable again, but starvation and exposure just seemed like too ignoble of options for death to the mage.

Perhaps that was Justice's influence.

Perhaps not.

Regardless, he was sleeping in a bed tonight – a proper bed – after downing a nice, hot meal. Maker strike him dead if He didn't approve. He walked up the muddy road, looking around at the wheat fields and small, thatched roofed houses. Anders might have thought it quaint if the sky weren't pouring a deluge onto him. Up ahead, he spotted a stone building. It was about twice the size of one of the smaller surrounding barns, and a sign above the door read, "Dragonwinks." That had to be the inn.

His feet dragged him to the door, and delicious warmth washed over him when he came inside. He felt like he'd just swallowed a drop of sunlight. He took a seat at an empty table by the fire. A satisfied sigh escaped his lips; a man had no idea how exquisite a pleasure it is to sit in a chair until he'd gone half a week without the option.

_Remember the story_, he told himself. _I'm a mage from the Circle in Ansburg on my way to the College of Magi in Cumberland. The end._

A tankard of mead slammed down in front of him. Frothy foam sloshed onto the table top, and a heavy-set woman with blue eyes smiled down at him with her hands on her hips. She had to be the innkeeper. "Oh, you're wet as a fish, you poor dear. Let me just get you a nice bowl of stew. It'll warm you right up," she said.

"Thank you," said Anders. "I'll take a room for the night, as well."

"All rightie, then. And there's no need to thank old Rosie, m'dear." The woman's smile seemed to take up half her face. She gave Anders the impression that she possessed a rather simple mind.

The woman tittered away, allowing the mage some peace. He relaxed once more, and his eyes wandered over to the fire in the hearth. It reminded him of Kirkwall, the city he'd set aflame.

It reminded him of Hawke.

His chest squeezed painfully at the thought of her name. He ground the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to rub her image out of his head. It would never happen, Anders knew, but he'd keep trying. The betrayal in her eyes was almost too much for him to bear. He'd left her after Meredith fell, unable to face her again. He felt no guilt for destroying the Chantry. Doing so had been necessary. The plight of the mages been ignored for too long, and sacrifices needed to be made before the Circles could be free. No, that wasn't the source of the guilt that tormented him and drove him from her side. It was knowing that he'd ruined her trust in him. Hawke had spared his life, but Anders knew she could never forgive him. Perhaps in time she would come to understand his actions, but she would never condone them. She was just too good. That's why he'd never been able to get as close as he'd wanted to her, why he wouldn't risk tainting her. The mage frowned. _And that's how that _beast _managed to get next to her._ The ache in his chest was back.

"Oh, Vivian," he sighed, forlorn. The mage raised the tankard of mead. "Here's to you, Hawke."

"Oh! _Hawke_ was the name! You don't know a lass named Hawke, do you?" gushed the innkeeper, having just returned from the kitchen with a steaming bowl of stew.

Anders nearly blasted the table over in surprise. "What? No, I said, er, Locke. That's my sister. She just, er, married an Orlesian and moved to Val Royeaux," he blurted. It was the one city he was absolutely certain Vivian would never run to, what with it being the home of the Divine and therefore crawling with Templars.

"Oh, that's too bad." The woman deflated with disappointment. "Two men – one was an elf, actually, but they were both Antivans – were talking about a lady named Hawke the other day. It sounded like they were looking for her. It was hard to tell, since they were whispering all secretive-like, you know? They just left this morning." She failed to notice the shadow of unease settle behind the man's eyes. "Silly me. I've been thinking all day that they had were looking for woman named Hail. I only just remembered it was Hawke when I misheard you."

She smiled again and was about to move away, but Anders caught her arm.

"Excuse me miss, er…?"

"Rosie."

"Miss Rosie. Did those men head east toward Tantervale?" He picked the direction at random; he knew this woman wasn't clever enough to see through his lie. "I know a family of Hails out that way, so perhaps you were right the first time."

"Hm, no. They left toward the forest, heading south."

"South. Well, never mind, then. Thank you for indulging me."

Rosie nodded and bustled away with a cheery wave.

Anders shoveled half the stew down his throat in a matter of seconds and got to his feet. _Well, just great,_ he thought as he tossed a bit on the table, _so much for that bed._ He strode out of the tavern and back into the storm, retracing his steps. Those men were headed toward Kirkwall. And if they were Antivans hunting down Vivian, they could be Crows. That woman had a regular laundry list of enemies who'd love to see her head on a pike, powerful enemies who could afford to send a couple of the world's deadliest assassins after her. Vivian was one of the most accomplished rogues Anders had ever known (_hell, she could go toe-to-toe the Queen of Ferelden_), but he still had to try to warn her. After all she had done for him, he owed it to her. So, ignoring all the protests of his survival instincts, he began walking back to the City of Chains.

A/N:

Longest. Chapter. Ever. As I was outlining this, I kept trying to work out a way to split it into two chapters, but every way I tried to cut it felt wrong. Ah well, I promised a beast, and I delivered a beast. My head's still spinning, but it feels good to finally have gotten various things into play.

Crystal Night: Thanks for the tip. I wondered about the functionality of the "colour of - / - blood" transition, too. I'll take your comment under advisement. If you have any other suggestions, I'd be glad to read them. Your constructive criticism is truly appreciated.

Sphinxes: Awww! Your comment absolutely made my day when I read it. It actually spurred me on to start writing this chapter. I'm still delighted that you laughed so hard. Thank you!

Grimson Ashes: I'm glad you approve of the way I'm portraying everyone. There's quite a trick that goes into keeping everyone in character while still trying to lead them in directions I imagine they'd grow. And yes, Merrill is the picture of adorable. Even when she does something insane, you just can't… stay… mad…

Alaskantiger: Thanks again for the positive feedback. I hope this chapter was worth the longer wait.

Eloquent Jane: Well, now you've gone and made me all pleased with myself. It's a fun challenge to write Fenris in a way that believably shows his "devotion and possessiveness" (as you so aptly put it) of Hawke, and it's so encouraging to hear back that at least someone thinks I'm doing it well. I look forward to reading what you think of the latest installment.


	6. Chapter 6: Bethany's Warning

A/N: Dear Bioware,

Should you demand compensation for my unsanctioned use the _Dragon Age_ universe and its inhabitants, you are welcome to abduct me and mold me into an indentured writing servant.

Love,

Sasha

**The Hunted**

**Chapter Six:**

**Bethany's Warning**

The full moon hung low over Antiva City, throwing the domed steeples and gently slanting rooflines into sharp relief. The city climbed up the side of the mountain at the edge of the sea, as if its various levels had been grafted into the rock. The towering shadows obscured the _Vaga de Noche_ tethered at the docksand stretched across the bay like reaching fingers. While Merrill had spent a full hour staring at the city with admiring, wonder-filled eyes, Fenris couldn't bring himself to like it. The skyline reminded him too much of the onion domes topping the tower-palaces of the Magisters in Minrathous. In fact, in the dim moonlight, the ancient sandstone chantry looming over the city could almost be mistaken for the Laraste Tower. With its spire, corbels, and wrap-around arched windows, it certainly was ornate enough.

The warrior's expression darkened with memory. Danarius had once met a fellow Magister on the steps of the Laraste and (indulgent man that he was) demonstrated for him a new curse he'd developed, using Fenris as a target. The wounds had bled for days. And like his lyrium markings, the scars still shone a vivid white against his olive skin. Looking at them always managed to dredge up the memory of collapsing on the stone steps while Danarius towered over him and magnanimously accepted the applause from his fellow Magister. "A trifle, a trifle. Now, if I were to apply an Entropic hex… Watch the blood vessels in my little wolf's eyes…"

Hawke's gentle stirring in her sleep pulled his mind thousands of leagues back to the docks of Antiva City. Not long after her sister had healed her charred hands, Hawke had settled herself on the stairs connecting the upper and main decks and dozed off while leaning against Fenris' shoulder. He had sat under the stars for hours now, dutifully playing the role of her pillow. She'd slowly slid down his body as she slept, and her head and shoulders had finally come to rest across the elf's lap. Her hair spilled across him, catching the moonlight like a net. Fenris heaved a sigh; the warrior was acutely aware that he was captured right along with the rays of light. He'd resisted this for years, afraid of the pain of losing his memories and shamed by the knowledge that he – an embittered elven ex-slave – could never deserve her. And all he'd managed to do with his self-denial was torture himself and the only person he would ever follow past the gates of the Black City. He was her willing captive.

The sound of soft footfalls summoned Fenris from his reverie. He looked up and saw Bethany emerge from the door leading up from the crew quarters. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise when she saw him, and she hesitated for a moment by the door. She seemed to consider heading back down the stairs.

"Can't sleep?" said Fenris. It was the closest he would come to inviting her to join him.

Bethany relaxed. "No," she said and crossed the deck. "Varric's snoring again."

"Ah, so how bad is it tonight? Hibernating bear or thunderstorm?"

"More like roaring high dragon," she said and took a seat beside him.

"My condolences to your sleep."

"Well, no matter. I doubt I would have been able to drift off even without all the racket. It's too stuffy below deck."

Fenris nodded and resumed absently tracing the shell of Vivian's ear with his finger. He and Bethany lapsed into silence. The mage's eyes kept flitting down to her sister's head resting in the elf's lap. It was strange to see Vivian in so intimate a situation. When she'd first come on deck just now, the sight had almost driven her back to her bunk. Disturbing the two of them had almost felt… invasive.

Still, as bizarre it was to see her sister's head in a man's lap, it was even stranger to see the soft look in Fenris' eyes as he watched her sleep. Bethany had fought alongside him countless times over the years, and his eyes had always been cold – even brutal – in those days. Had things really changed so much during her time in the Circle? It was no secret to the members of their rag-tag crew that something powerful had been brewing just under the surface between those two for ages, always threatening to boil over. Even in the Circle, Bethany had caught wind of it. Each time her mother would visit her at the Gallows, Leandra would always manage to work in some disapproving remark about their dysfunctional not-romance: "He's a fine enough elf, I suppose, but Vivian should at least reserve _some _time to indulge at least _a couple_ of her suitors. Instead, what spare hours she has not running up and down the coast slaying bandits she spends making merry at the Hanged Man and teaching that elf how to _read_. Maker, I'll never have grandchildren."

Bethany herself had barely understood their connection. True, Fenris was essentially good. And – if she were honest – excessively handsome. But he also mistrusted and resented all mages on principle. This did little to endear him to her.

While he had fought to defend the mages in Kirkwall and branded himself a traitor for their cause, Bethany was under no illusions that he'd undergone some miraculous spiritual conversion. He hadn't done it to better the lot of the mages. He'd done it for Vivian. And for good or for ill, his unyielding loyalty to her sister had incurred Bethany a debt of gratitude toward him.

Finally, she broke the silence. "I always thought our parents had just been trying to protect _me_ by moving us around so much when we were little. I hated it, not being able to have a home for so many years out of fear that the Templars would find us. Sometimes I wished they _would_ find us. At least then the worrying would have been over. But after what happened earlier with the staves and Vivian's burns, I realize there was even more at stake." With Fenris watching her, she continued. "You know what the Templars would have done if they'd caught us? They would not have just taken me and left the others in peace. They would have discovered Vivian's sensitivity to the Fade and dragged her to the Circle as well. They'd have done the same with Carver if he'd had it."

"I thought you said Hawke lacks the skill necessary to train the abilities of a mage," said Fenris.

Bethany nodded grimly. "She does. But the Chantry still perceives people like her as potential threats, so she too would be locked up in a Tower some place. By the time she was old enough for the Harrowing, it would have ended badly for her."

"Are you saying they would have sent her into the Fade with no hope of fighting off demonic possession?" His voice came out as more of a hiss than a whisper.

The mage shook her head. "No. The Rite of Harrowing takes an enormous amount of lyrium to sustain, so only promising mage apprentices are allowed to attempt it. Someone like Vivian is never given the chance. They aren't worth the expense."

A vice clamped around Fenris' heart. "They would have made her Tranquil."

"Or executed her, yes. They forced two teenagers of limited ability to drink hemlock juice during my time at the Circle. One gangly boy, Cuthbert, resisted and tried to fight his way out of the Gallows, but a Knight-Lieutenant ran him through before he even reached the courtyard." Her fist clenched in the fabric of her robe, and she grew quiet for a moment.

"But considering her noted parentage, I think they eventually would have subjected Vivian to the Rite of Tranquility if she'd been captured in Ferelden. The beautiful daughter of the notorious apostate Malcolm Hawke would have made a prized pet for any officer in the Templar Order's chain-of-command. All in the name of the Maker."

The image of Knight-Commander Meredith's tranquil attendant – Elsie, Elsa? – rose unbidden in Fenris' mind. He remembered the vacantness of the woman's eyes, the passionless direction that guided her movements like an automaton. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind's eye by turning his gaze down at Hawke's face. She was so peaceful in her sleep, oblivious to the gut-twisting discussion of the ghastly fate she'd been spared. The idea of Hawke's empty shell placidly tailing after some Templar like a mindless dog made him sick. His hand tightened its grip on her waist.

Bethany saw the pain whirl behind his eyes as he stared at Hawke, imagining the sick caricature of her former self that she could have been forced to become at the hands of the Order Fenris had so stubbornly defended until the world came literally crashing down on their heads. She tried not to feel smug.

Still, she couldn't stop herself from saying what came next.

"You realize that any children she has will likely be mages."

The warrior's head jerked up, and something aggressive flashed across his face, but Bethany cut him off before he could utter any retort. "Considering the powerful magic in her bloodline, if she were with a man with any magic in his family, any son or daughter of theirs would almost certainly be mages. Your sister was going to be trained as a Magister, was she not?"

Even without his armor, Fenris' body had gone so tense it seemed strangely angular. His eyes were livid, and his hand formed a claw on Hawke's waist. "Why are you telling me this? Do you honestly think – after _everything_ – that-"

A door slammed immediately to their right, and Hawke sat bolt upright so fast she nearly smashed Fenris' nose with her shoulder.

"Shit! The damn door's so warped it catches against the floorboards. I'll have to have the bottom sanded down. Castillion never did take proper care of the ladies in his life," signed Isabela as she came around the corner. When she saw Fenris and the two sisters – Hawke with her hair all mussed on one side of her head – huddled on the staircase, the most wicked grin parted her lips.

"All right. What have you three been doing, and why didn't you invite _me_?"

"Plotting a mutiny. Sorry we had to exclude you," said Hawke without missing a beat.

Isabela laughed. "Tired of poorly salted venison and having to bunk with Varric already, are you? I can't blame you, I suppose. I can hear our stout little friend sawing logs all the way over in my cabin."

"I take it his impressive display of lung capacity chased you up here, then?" said Hawke. She rubbed the side of her face before Isabela noticed the imprint of the seams of Fenris' trousers on her cheek.

"Actually, I was hoping to find a pub near the docks. Someplace I can get a drink and coax out the rumours worth hearing. Are you up for it?"

"It's so late, Isabela. I'd really just like to get some sleep," said Bethany as she rose tiredly to her feet. She started walking toward the door to the crew quarters when Isabela shifted her weight and blocked her.

"You realize there are lodgings at pubs, don't you? Unless you'd rather shove some cotton in your ears and brave your bunk downstairs." She shifted back out of the mage's way while arching a cocky brow.

Hawke got to her feet and hyper-extended her arms over her head in what would have been a grand stretch if she weren't so short. "That sounds brilliant, Isabela. I'd give anything for a good night's sleep in a real bed. You know. With a mattress. Maybe some sheets, even!" She walked towards the edge of the ship and kicked down the rope ladder.

The Rivaini woman swung her leg over the rail and made her descent. "My, Hawke," she said to her friend as they reached the dock and waited for the others, "you should have said something to me sooner. We could have worked out _some_ sort of payment for the use of my bed." She reached out a brown finger and curled it against Hawke's cheek.

"Shut it, whore," growled Fenris, positioning himself between Isabela and Hawke.

The two women laughed. "Oh, Fenris. You make it so _easy_," said the pirate.

"Simple pleasures for a simple woman," he returned.

"Now now, children, there's no need to get nasty,' said Bethany as the group headed towards the stone stairs leading up from the docks. Isabela shot Fenris a peevish grin behind the mage's back. The scowl she got in return only made it deepen.

Once they'd made it to the top of the stairs, Isabela – who had spent some time in Antiva City during her stint away from Kirkwall after Hawke's duel with the Arishok – lead the way down the winding, cobbled streets. The way was lined with an endless series of shops and stalls, most of which were closed for the night. "The Mad Dog's just up ahead. Think you're going to make it, Bethany?"

"Barely," said the mage while stifling a yawn. "Is that it on the corner? The one with all the people out front?"

"In all its glory, yes."

"Thank the Maker," said Hawke. "I could use a nice mug of ale; I've got this blighted crick in my neck." She reached behind her back and massaged her shoulder for emphasis.

Isabela's expression grew devious, "Oh no! Fenris, don't tell me you've been so remiss as to not show dear Hawke how to hold her head when she-"

Fenris took a swipe at her before she could lead her jibe to its vulgar conclusion, but he was too tired for his heart to be fully in it. Isabela dodged the hit easily and reached the cluster of scantily-clad whores gathered outside the pub. They flashed their gold teeth and batted heavily charcoaled eyes at the newcomers. A man with his shirt undone and his trousers suggestively loosed slung an arm around Fenris' shoulder as he passed, and the elf quickly shoved him off.

"Friends of yours?" he asked Isabela as they pushed their way into the tavern.

"Could be," she answered, grinning. "Isn't Antiva _fun_?"

The bar was somewhat more upscale than the Hanged Man, given its lack of dirt piles, strutting chickens, and broken doors, although its patrons were just as drunk. Groups of them sat at tables and on bar stools, too distracted by the low-slug tops of the wenches gabbing away at them to mind the streams of mead running down their chins. A group of bearded men who could barely stand clustered by the fireplace and roared out a drinking song. "_Whiskey, whiskey on the shelf, you were so quiet all by yourself! Things were fine till they took you down. Now let's all have another round!_"

As much as Hawke had been looking forward to nursing a pint, she was relieved when Fenris came up beside her with a key. "I asked the innkeeper for the quietest rooms. We're on the third floor," he said and gestured for her and Bethany to follow him toward the stairs.

"Goodnight, Isabela. Whatever trouble you're planning on getting into, save it for tomorrow night," said Hawke with a tired smile as she linked arms with her sister.

"Leaving so soon? What a pity," Isabela faked a pout. She already had a flagon of mead in her hand. "We'll have to celebrate our new freedom tomorrow." She waved her drink at them as they disappeared around a corner.

They discovered that the third floor was, mercifully, significantly quitter. Bethany heaved a sigh of relief, realizing she might actually get to sleep tonight.

Fenris stopped in front of a room marked 317, which made little sense considering there were only five rooms on the third floor. "Here," he said and held out a key to Bethany. "You're down the hall."

"Thank you," she said and took the key.

Fenris opened the door to his room. "Hawke," he said gently and stood to the side for her to enter.

"'Night, Beth. I'll find you in the morning," she said and kissed her sister's cheek before heading in.

Fenris moved after her, but he paused in the doorway long enough to level a cold stare at Bethany before closing the door. The witch's warning replayed in his head: _'You realize that any children she has will likely be mages.'_ So that's what Bethany thought of him. His dark expression ebbed away, however, when he turned and saw Hawke lying prone on the bed, her arm extended toward him, beckoning. She'd stripped down to her tunic and underclothes, and her naked legs glided slowly back and forth across the sheets. A force more powerful than mere desire compelled him to go to her. When he pulled her into his arms and felt her nuzzle into the crook of his neck, he was overwhelmed once more with the knowledge that he could never let her go.


	7. Chapter 7: Slices of Heaven

A/N: Dear Readers,

I hope you enjoy the latest installment of _The Hunted._ Please review! Your comments truly motivate me to bring this story to life.

Love,

Sasha

PS: Just as a warning (or let's be serious… as a TEASER) to my readers: this chapter indulges in some deliciously graphic romance.

**The Hunted**

**Chapter Seven:**

**Slices of Heaven**

A chorus of "g'mornings" greeted Hawke as she came down the stairs into the pub. Nearly all of her companions were already ploughing into to first decent meal they'd had since their escape from Kirkwall. They must have walked over from the _Vaga de Noche _earlier that morning. The sight of juice dripping from the apricot in Bethany's hand ignited Hawke's ravenous hunger. She took the empty seat next to Fenris, who had come down a couple minutes before she had, and plucked a bread roll from a basket in the middle of the table. The bread was brick hard, but food was food. After more than a week of having nothing to eat but old jerky and water of questionable quality, it never occurred to her to be picky. She attacked the bread with gusto.

"Wow, Hawke. What did that roll ever do to you? Insult the memory of your parents? Slow down before you break your teeth. Here, try soaking it in some olive oil." The dwarf pushed a tureen of oil toward her.

Hawke, grinning, tore off a hunk of bread and dipped it in the tureen. "My jaw thanks you, Varric."

"I care about your body parts, Hawke. I need them intact so you can produce fresh material for my epic narrative." The dwarf winked before entertaining Merril by tossing grapes high into the air and catching them with his mouth. The little elf gasped and clapped with each capture. Between Varric's antics and getting to eat actual food, Merrill was in raptures.

After blissfully savouring a few softened mouthfuls of bread, Hawke turned to the woman on her left. "Good morning, Aveline. I don't see Donnic or Isabela here. Has she tormented your fine husband into taking more sailing lessons?" she joked. She leaned her leg against Fenris's. His hand snaked across her lower thigh.

Aveline heaved one of her customary sighs. "No, Donnic's had enough of Isabela's _colourful_ lectures to last a lifetime. They're off right now trying to secure us transportation to his uncle Lucian's vineyard. It's not a long trek – not by our standards – but he's anxious to get there before nightfall."

"Is the road dangerous?"

"Oh no, it's not that at all." Aveline started to blush. "Donnic's just, well, you know how Donnic is, ah, such a gentleman," Aveline's rouge began to obscure her freckles as an amused grin spread across Hawke's face. "He says he wants me to meet Lucian and his wife in the daylight so they can see how, ah, beautiful I am." The blood fueling the Guard Captain's blush pumped so furiously through her ears that it obscured the sound of Fenris snorting into a mug of goat's milk. Hawke kicked him under the table.

"Aveline, have I told you that I like Donnic? You may keep him."

The Ferelden smirked. "I'm glad you approve." She took a bite of smoked meat before looking back at Hawke. "It's a relief knowing Donnic and I have got a place to stay, but what about everyone else? I've been trying to work out where the rest of our group is going to be able to stay now that we're in Antiva."

Hawke nodded. "I spoke with Isabela. She says she'll be living aboard her ship. She's going to look for contracts to transport cargo. Plenty of work like that to be had in here, I'm sure." Hawke looked across the table at Merrill, who was trying and failing at Varric's trick with the grapes. Varric, in turn, was failing not to laugh. "What about you, Merrill?" asked Hawke. "Have you thought about where you'd like to stay for now? Have you considered scouting out the Alienages?"

A grape bounced off the tiny mage's forehead, rolled across the table, and joined a dozen others on the floor. "Oh yes, I have, actually. I think I'd like to give the Alienage a real try this time. I never really bothered to explore the Alienage in Kirkwall; I was so preoccupied with our adventures… and with the Eluvian, of course," her eyes went downcast with the thought, but she perked up quickly. "It would be nice to meet my neighbours this time and get to know the people."

"That sounds great, Merrill. Maybe you could even share some of the stories you learned from the Keeper," said Hawke.

The elf's eyes lit up with excitement. She was about to answer when Isabela burst into the pub, followed by Donnic. The pirate made a beeline for Hawke and Aveline and draped her arms across the women's shoulders. "Excellent news, Big Girl," she said to Aveline. "Donnic and I have found you a ride out of the city. Hope you don't mind livestock carts."

"We found a farmer who sold all the goats he'd brought to the market yesterday evening, and he's making ready to return to the country this morning," said Donnic. "He's willing to take us for a few silvers since the vineyard is along his way back. He'll be departing from the city gates in a half an hour, so we've got to leave now to catch him in time."

Aveline nodded. After taking a few last bites of breakfast and standing from the table she said, "Why don't you come with us, Hawke? You should know where Donnic and I are staying in case you need to reach us. Don't worry about keeping your presence in Antiva a secret; we can tell them that you worked with us in the Guard. You can go by Amell."

Hawke smiled. "That's my Aveline. Always thinking one step ahead of disaster. What do you say, Fenris? Are you up for some fresh air, or do you think you'd miss the aroma of stale mead and unwashed bodies too much to leave the Mad Dog for a day?

"Donnic," said Fenris, "Does your uncle make wine at this vineyard?"

"Of course."

The elf was on his feet before Hawke could so much as blink. "Let's be off, then."

* * *

><p>As far as Hawke was concerned, Lucian lived on a slice of Heaven. The sandstone farmhouse sat atop a hill flanked by lines of cypress trees, and the terracotta roof looked over a small horse stable and countless rows of grape-bearing vines running down the gentle slopes below. The setting sun hung low over the mountains in the distance, bathing the world in a warm amber glow. Surrounded by the green, gold, and purple hues of the vineyard where the very air was fragrant, Hawke could forget for a moment about the fate of Kirkwall. She closed her eyes, absorbing the peace.<p>

The crunch of gravel gave away Aveline's approach. "It's beautiful out here, isn't it?" she said.

"I feel like I've walked into a painting. And Lucian and his wife – Agata, right? – are lovely," said Hawke. The rogue looked over her shoulder and watched Lucian pour Fenris another glass of wine. The vintner was seated with Donnic and Fenris at a table in a copse of cypresses near the farmhouse. The four of them were engaged in light conversation, and even Fenris – grinning and leaning back in his chair – looked relaxed after his second glass of wine.

As if on cue, Lucian looked up from the table and spotted Hawke and Aveline. "Ladies! Why have you left us? Agata's just brought out dessert!" Lucian beckoned to the two women.

Hawke sat at the table as Agata appeared from the house carrying a tray of thin pasties drizzled with honey. "No thank you, Agata. I couldn't eat another bite. I'm still savouring the fig and basil sauce from the lamb."

"Nonsense!" said Agata as she forced a pastry onto Hawke's plate. "I don't care what Donnic has to say about your ability as a guard. You're far too small to properly guard anything. Honestly, what did they _feed_ you in Kirkwall? I could snap you like a chicken." She tucked her wispy gray hair behind her ear and silently dared Hawke to protest further.

Donnic guffawed. His face was flushed with wine. "I wouldn't try it, aunt. She might be slight, but this woman here could best every man she's ever met."

Fenris smirked. "Not _every_ man."

Hawke laughed and drank deeply out of her glass. "Is that a _challenge_?"

"It is. But don't worry; I'll go easy on you." He leaned toward her, a predatory gleam in his eyes. The look made something hot and heavy settle in the pit of Hawke's stomach.

"Relax, you two, before you have the chance to flatten any rows of trellises," laughed Aveline. "It would be a terrible waste to damage any grapes that produce such delicious wine."

Lucian clapped his calloused hands. "Ah! I'm delighted to hear you enjoy our wine. Ours is a small winery, but we take pride in our work."

Fenris relaxed in his seat, "Your pride is well placed, Lucian." He held the glass up toward the last rays of sunlight, contemplating the dusky red glow. He brought the glass to his lips. "You use Sangiovese grapes. The hints of cherry and earth give it away," Fenris sipped lightly. Hawke was transfixed on the sinuous motions of the muscles in his throat. "And the light finish of cedar. Judging from the full-bodied taste, you leave your grapes on the vine long into the season before harvesting them." The elf took another sip and closed his eyes. "You use oak barrels."

"I'm impressed, ser elf. You know quite a lot about wine," said Lucian.

Fenris smiled easily at his compliment, but Hawke caught the glint of something hard in his eyes. "An old master of mine once desired me to know about such things."

"How fortunate for you to have had such a fine teacher," said Agata said kindly. She didn't notice the sudden tenseness in her guests' postures or the death grip the elf now had on the arm of his chair. "It's a shame we haven't got more room here for you to stay at the vineyard. I hope you won't be too uncomfortable staying in the stable tonight. If we only had an extra room, we'd be happy to put you to work here were you could put your master's teachings to good use."

Aveline coughed uncomfortably. "So, H-Amell, what are planning on doing now that we're in Antiva? I can't leave the city without knowing you've got some sort of a plan."

Hawke chuckled for a moment, eager to steer the conversation away from accidental praise of Danarius before Fenris started flickering with lyrium. "Don't worry about me, Aveline. You know I always manage to magic a way to get by. I'll stay at the inn with my sister and this one," she nodded at Fenris, "at least until we come up with some work. Beth and I might have to channel our old mercenary days for a while. You know, those good times before our lives revolved around qunari, despotic Templars, and blood mages. Who knows… Maybe I'll find the work relaxing." Hawke winked.

"Ah yes," interjected Fenris, "a most dull career change: guardswoman to mercenary. Just be careful you don't make too many new enemies out here, Amell. The last thing we need is a murder of Crows after you."

Hawke looked pensive for a moment. "Hm, I don't know about that. It's been, what, a full two weeks since anyone has tried to kill us? All this peace is making us a bit too complacent for my liking. We could do with a near-death experience or two just to liven up the mood, don't you think?"

The elf rolled his eyes. "_Mulier stulta_."

"And what does that mean?" asked Hawke, amused.

"Nothing you don't already know."

"Bah, all this talk about death and adventure shows me that you city folk have lost touch with the things that are most important in life," said Lucian.

"Duty? Honour? Country?" suggested Aveline.

"No. Fine wine and a good night's sleep."

Agata swatted his arm.

"And family too, of course," he amended.

"To family!" toasted Donnic. He thrust his glass toward the darkening sky.

"To family," seconded the others. Fenris stared at Hawke as the wine slid down his throat. She stared back.

* * *

><p>Night had fully fallen over the Antivan countryside. Hawke had disappeared in the moon-cast shadows of the vines and trellises. She fixed her eyes on Fenris as he emerged from the farmhouse carrying a thick blanket and walked down the hill toward her. Like a cat slinking in the dark, she clung to the shadows and prowled to the edge of the stable, ready to pounce. Tension and adrenaline coiled up inside her as he approached. Fenris tossed the unruly hair from his eyes, and Hawke's heart panged with yearning. The elf was desire incarnate. This had been too long in coming. When Fenris passed within a foot of Hawke, she sprang at him from the darkness. Instantly, his body lit up and his fists clenched, ready to attack.<p>

Fenris was fast, but not fast enough. He saw a blur come from his peripheral vision, but before he could finish his strike, Hawke collided with his chest and slammed him against the wall of the stable.

"_Venhedis_!" snarled Fenris. He was furious and horrified. Before the moonlight and the flash of his markings revealed her face to him, he was going to treat his attacker like any other assailant: by killing it. "Do you have any idea how close I came to ripping your heart from your chest? I could have killed y-."

Hawke slammed her lips against his, burying his protests beneath a kiss. She didn't care that he was angry. They'd needed this for too long. They had only reconciled their romance a few short days before Kirkwall had flown apart at the seams, and they'd hardly been able to touch each other since. Last night was the first private night they'd had together, but Hawke had been so exhausted after the incident with the staves that it took everything she had just to make it to the tavern. She could scarcely move by the time she dropped herself on the bed. The passion behind her kiss was long overdue. She stood on her tip-toes and pressed her body flush against his, soaking up his heat. She opened her mouth against his and kneaded his lower lip with her teeth.

She pulled back an inch. "Relax, Fenris," she teased. "We both know you're not fast enough to block my attacks from stealth." Her breath was hot against his lips. She trailed kisses over his mouth, down his cheek, and across his jawline. Her hips rolled gently against his.

'_Curséd woman_,' thought Fenris. His heart raced in his chest with the residual fear of realizing he'd been miliseconds away from plunging his fist into Hawke's chest. But he couldn't make himself stay angry. Every tender brush of her lips against his skin ebbed the rage away, leaving relief and hunger in their wake. The rigidity melted from Fenris's muscles, and his arms closed around her waist. His leggings began to feel uncomfortably tight.

He felt her laugh breathily against rim of his ear. "Looks like I bested my challenger after all."

"Not a chance, Hawke," Fenris growled and pushed himself forward, toppling them both onto the grass and the blanket he'd dropped. He crushed her mouth beneath his and ran his tongue across her lip before forcing his way inside. She tasted of fruit and wine. He needed more. He snaked his hands down to her hips and began hastily undoing her belt. Hawke's clever fingers found their way to the buckles of his armor and released the clasps of his breast plate. He lifted his chest from hers just long enough to throw his body armor away before resuming his desperate assault on her mouth and clothes.

Finally both their shirts were lying on the ground, along with the cloth band that bound her breasts. Fenris sat up. He straddled her waist and stared down at her, getting drunk off of her with his eyes. He ran his hands across her body, tracing her collar bone, lingering on the swell of her breasts, the narrowing of her waist, and the curve of her hips. Her hair billowed out around her like silken waves. Like his lyrium markings, her skin glowed like alabaster in the moonlight. She was a vision of loveliness.

"Fenris, we should move into the stable."

"No, I need to be able to see you, Vivian. Please let us stay in the moonlight."

"You see me every day," she said quietly. She ran her fingers up and down his face.

"Not like this. It's been too long since I saw you like this. I couldn't bear not to see you tonight." He hooked his thumbs in her trousers and shimmied her out of them before moving atop her once more. "Let me show you how I have missed you."

He slowly kissed down her torso, licking and nipping as he went. Everything smelled of earth and fruit and Vivian. He stopped briefly to lave one of her nipples. Hawke moaned softly beneath his ministrations. He resumed his descent. When his searing trail reached the inside of her hip, Fenris shifted his body down and kissed the inside of her upper thigh. She tangled her fingers in his hair. She tried to guide his head back up to the point of her release, but the elf wouldn't be directed.

Fenris could feel her pulse racing beneath his lips as he raked his teeth gently up to her nether lips and smirked devilishly with her every moan.

"Fenris!" she gasped as he slid his tongue into her folds. He slammed his hands down on her hips, holding her against his mouth. Maker, she tasted like honey. Hawke began instinctually rocking her hips, but Fenris was determined to keep working her with his tongue. Her smell and taste intoxicated him, and she was dripping wet. Fenris felt himself pulsing with agonizing desire. He nipped at her bud with his teeth, and Vivian bucked so hard she nearly threw him off. She was beyond ready.

Fenris pulled himself up so that he was at eye-level with the woman beneath him. She clutched him to her, reveling in the feeling of his skin on hers. Her mouth found his again in another hot, open mouthed kiss.

"I can taste myself on your lips," she whispered.

"Now you know how incredible you taste."

He felt her body stiffen as the tip of his erection grazed her clit. She gasped in his ear and dug her nails into the flesh of his back. Fenris turned his head and kissed her, a soft, gentle brush of his lips on her jaw. Her nails dug a little deeper as he brushed his lips a little further her jawline until his breath tickled the sensitive skin below her ear. Fenris trailed his lips down her neck, kissing her more softly than he ever had in his life. He felt Vivian undulate her hips in a sinuous caress, sliding him along her silken cleft.

His lips danced down the tendons of her neck. As he sucked the junction between her neck and collarbone, his whole body moved forward. His lips rose back up her neck as he barely entered her.

Vivian arched along the entirety of her spine, exposing her neck to his lips.

"Fenris."

Fenris had no idea what he'd done to please the Maker so much to grant him such intimacy with the beautiful woman beneath him. He was locked in this moment where nothing in the world mattered but holding her in his arms and feeling their hearts beating as one.

And giving her pleasure.

He felt her hand on his face. She guided him to her lips before steering his hand to caress her breast. The softness of his touch made her moan. He rolled her nipple between his finger and thumb with one hand and traced circles on the inside of her hip with the other. He felt her fingers run up and down his back and sides, tracing his markings. The lyrium flickered under her fingers, bringing him to the knife's edge between pleasure and pain. He shivered under her touch. Vivian writhed beneath him, bearing full witness to the passion overflowing within her. She wanted him inside her.

Fenris rocked his hips deeply against her. Vivian tossed her head back at the sudden shock of pleasure, breaking the kiss. Fenris was fully inside her. The warrior was nearly mad with pleasure, but his only desire was to make sure his lover felt the same.

"Oh Fenris," she breathed. He smiled against her lips and kissed her once more, elated with the pleasure in her voice.

"My Vivian." Fenris began slowing thrusting inside her. The woman moaned. He thrust again, slowly withdrawing then sliding back into the heat of her being until he was fully inside her. All the while, his thumb and finger teased her nipple. He longed to take it his mouth, but he couldn't bear for his lips to be parted from hers.

She arched her back and began rocking her hips against him to meet his trusts. "Please don't stop," she whispered against their kiss. She turned her head to the side and pulled his earlobe between her lips. She suckled on the lobe for a moment before slowly trailing her teeth up along the rim. Fenris growled low in his chest.

He once again trailed his lips across her neck, more forcefully this time. He used his teeth and tongue to draw more pleasure for her with his sinuous ministrations. He could feel his lover's breathing grow deeper and faster as he raked his canines across her vulnerable flesh, and she moaned as she rocked more urgently against him, seeking him, wanting more. Still, his thrusts were teasingly, painfully slow.

"Fuck, Fenris," she panted with her eyes clamped shut. "Please."

"As my lady commands."

His lips met hers once more, locking together in a fervent, amorous dance that mirrored the intensity of their love making. He began to match her pace.

Gone were the slow, tender thrusts. Gone were the teasing, tender caresses. His quickening thrusts were driven by hunger and intensity, by the need to bring Vivian to a pleasure she had never known and ravish her senseless. Strange voices and thoughts distorted like images seen through melted glass gathered at the corner of his mind. He remembered this eerie feeling from the first night he'd been with Vivian. This time, he kept them at bay in the recesses of his mind. Tonight was about him and Vivian, and all else be damned.

Vivian's movements grew as shaky and erratic as her breathing. She felt something coiling up tightly inside her. Fenris didn't let up or waver in his pace. He kept going, pushing himself deeper and deeper inside her with every thrust. He held her tightly against him, as if he were trying to merge himself with her into one being.

She broke their kiss as she came and buried her face in his neck to muffle her moans of ecstasy. Fenris crushed her to him. He had never seen anything as beautiful as Vivian in that moment. He could feel her squeezing him inside and he thrust and withdrew. Fenris could literally feel the spasms of her pleasure, and sheer intimacy made him groan. He was so close.

He could feel the intensity of the crescendo building within him. Suddenly, all the muscles throughout his body rigid, and he thrust himself as far inside her as he could.

"Vivian," Fenris moaned as he came deeply inside her.

She gasped, knowing he was experiencing the same pleasure she was. She clasped his hand and laced his fingers with hers. Pleasure surged through them both as they lay captured in each other's' arms, panting heavily in shared bliss.

They remained locked together, neither wanting to let the other go. Slowly, the tension of their bodies lessened, allowing them to lie comfortably together with the stars glittering overhead. Vivian still clutched his hand tightly, as if she were afraid he was about to disappear. Her squeezing fingers might as well have been wrapped around his heart. With an aching pang, he knew what was troubling her.

Fenris brought her small hand to his lips. "I will never leave you again. Never."


End file.
